THE    LEGENDS 

OF    THE 

AMERICAN  REVOLUTM. 

"177  6." 

O  II, 

WASHINGTON  AND  HIS  GENERALS. 


BY    GEORGE    LIPPARD. 

AUTHOR  OF  "THE  QUAKER  CITY;  or,  THE  MONKS  OF  MONK  HALL,"  "  PAUL  ARDENHEIM, 

THE    MONK   OF    \YISSAHIKON;"    "BLANCHE    OF    BRANDYWINE;"    "WASHINGTON 

AND  HIS   MEN;"    "THE  MYSTERIES  OF  FLORENCE;"    "THE   MEMOIRS   OF    A 

PREACHER;"    "THE     EMPIIIE    CITY;"    "THE  BANK  DIRECTOR'S    SON;" 

"TlIK  ENTRANCED;"  "THE  NAZARENE;"  "LEGENDS  OF  MEXICO." 


We  pronounce  this  to  be  the  best  book  that  has  ever  been  written  on  tfiis  portion  of  our  history,  it  being 
of  the  days  and  times  of  '  1776.'  This  book  is  not  merely  a  history,  it  is  something  more.  It  is  a,  series 
of  battle  pictures,  with  all  the  truth  of  history  in  them,  where  the  heroes  are  made  living,  present  and 
visible  to  our  senses.  Here  we  do  not  merely  turn  over  the  dead  dry  facts  of  General  Washington's  battles, 
as  if  coldly  digging  them  out  of  their  tomb — but  we  see  the  living  general  as  he  moves  round  over  the  field 
of  glory.  We  almost  hear  the  word  of  his  command.  We  are  quite  sure  that  we  see  the  smoke  rolling  up 
from  the  field  of  battle,  and  hear  the  dreadful  roar  of  the  cannon,  as  it  spouts  its  death-flame  in  the 
flee  of  the  living  and  the  dead.  Through  all,  we  see  dashing  on  the  wild  figure  of  mad  Anthony 
Wayne,  followed  ivith  the  broken  battle-cry  of  Pal  a  ski  ;  until  along  the  line,  and  over  the  field,  the  images 
of  death  and  terror  are  only  hidden  from  our  view  by  the  shroud  of  smoke  and  flame. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
LEAKY,    STUART    &    COMPANY, 

9  SOUTH  NINTH   STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1876,  by 

T.    B.    PETERSON    &    BROTHERS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 


HA/i ) 
PREFACE. 


THIS  work,  entitled,  the  "  Legends  of  the  American 
Revolution,"  or  "  Washington  and  his  Generals  "  may  be 
described  in  one  word,  as  an  earnest  attempt  to  embody  the 
scenes  of  the  Past,  in  a  series  of  Historical  pictures. 

Some  portions  of  these  Legends,  were  delivered  in  the 
form  of  Historical  lectures,  before  the  William  Wirt  Insti 
tute,  and  t-he  Institute  of  the  Revolution,  confessedly  among 
the  first  literary  institutions  in  the  land.  To  the  gentlemen 
of  these  institutions,  I  shall  ever  remain  grateful,  not  only 
for  the  success  of  these  Legends,  but  for  the  uniform  kind 
ness  and  courtesy,  which  marked  their  intercourse  with  me. 

I  may  be  permitted  to  state  without  the  imputation  of 
vanity,  that  these  Historical  pictures,  their  purpose  and 
their  style,  beauties  and  defects,  are  the  result  of  my 
endeavors  for  years  past,  to  delineate  in  all  its  fullness, 
"the  days  and  times  of  '76  that  so  sorely  tried  men's  souls." 

Not  only  George  Washington,  as  well  as  his  Generals, 
have  I  attempted  to  delineate  in  these  Legends  of  the 
Revolution,  but  it  has  been  my  purpose,  to  picture  the 
scenes  that  went  before  the  Revolution,  together  with  the 
heroic  deeds  of  the  Authors.  Soldiers,  and  Statesmen  of  '76. 
The  patriotism  of  the  humblest  freeman,  has  been  as  dear 

(11) 


M525688 


12  PREFACE. 

to  me,  for  the  purposes  of  illustration,  as  the  moral  gran 
deur  of  Washington,  or  the  chivalric  daring  of  La  Fayette. 
Some  of  the  brightest  gleams  of  poetry  and  romance,  that 
illumine  our  history,  or  the  history  of  any  other  land 
and  age,  I  have  endeavored  to  embody,  in  those  pages  of 
the  present  work,  which  relate  to  the  deeds  of  the  Hero- 
Women  of  the  Revolution. 

With  these  introductory  remarks,  I  submit  to  the  public, 
"  THE  LEGENDS  OF  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION  "  as  illus 
trated  in  this  volume. 

GEORGE    LIPPARD. 


TABLE 

OF 

CONTENTS. 


Page 


BOOK  THE  FIRST, 
THE  BATTLE  OF  GERMANTOWN. 
PART  THE  FIRST, 

THE  BATTLE-EVE.  25 

L  THE  RED  CROSS  IN  PHILADELPHIA  25 

The  Entrance  of  the  British       -  25 
Lord  Cornwallis  at  the  head  of  his 

legions  25 

II.  THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  REBEL         -  27 
The  Old-time  village        -  27 
The  view  from  Chesnut  Hill    -  28 
WASHINGTON  on  the  SKIPPACK  29 

III.  THE  CAMP  op  THE  BRITISHER  29 
Chew's  house  before  the  battle  29 
The  position  of  the  British  Army  30 
Night  in  Germantown  30 
The  names,  not  recorded  in  the 

"  Herald's"  college            -  31 

IV.  THE  NIGHT-MARCH                     -  32 
WASHINGTON  by  his  camp-fire  32 
His  plan  of  battle            -  33 


The  Brother's  soul  and  the  Sister's 

prayer  37 

WASHINGTON  comes  to  battle  37 

The  hunt  of  death  begins         -  38 

Pulaski's  war-cry  -        -  3$ 

The  flash  of  musquetry  -  40 

WASHINGTON  and  his  Generals  in 


battle 

The  halt  at  Chew's  House 
III.  THE  FLAG  OF  TRUCE 
The  Volunteer  of  Mercy 
His  murder 

PART  THE  THIRD, 
CHEW'S  HOUSE. 


4 
41 

43 
4ft 
44 


44 


44 


[.    THE  FORLORN  HOPE 

A  sight  worth  a  score  of  years,  to  see  45 
The  fate  of  the  stormers  -        46 

II.    THE  HORSEMAN  AND    HIS  MESSAGE          47 

WASHINGTON,  receives  intelligence  47 


The  legions  on  their  battle  march  34 

PART  THE  SECOND, 
THE  BATTLK  MOHN.  35 

I.  THE  DATBREAK  WATCH  -         35 

The  sentinel  on  Mount  Airy       -         35 
The  sound  that  he  hears  -         36 

II.  THE  FIRST  C8RSE  OF   GERMANTOWN    36 

The  dream  of  the  sentinel         -         36 


III.  THE  BRITISH  GENERAL             -  48 
Scene  in  Germantown              -  48 
The  British  army,  in  full  force, 

moves  to  the  field  -  49 

IV.  LEGEND  OF  GENERAL  AGNEW  -  49 
The  old  man  in  the  graveyard  49 
The  rifle-shot          ...  50 

V.  THE  CONTEST  IN  THE    TILLAGE 

STREET  50 

Sullivan's  charge  50 

The  density  of  the  fog      -  5C 

VI.  CHEW'S  HOUSE  AGAIN'       -         -  50 
Fighting  in  the  dark  50 

VII.  THE  ADVENTURE  OF  WASHINGTON  51 

He  rushes  into  the  enemy  s  fire  51 
(13) 


14 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


Page, 


PART  THE  FOURTH. 

THE  FALL  OF  THE   BANNER  OF  THE  STARS    52 

I.  WASHINGTON  IN  DANGER  -         52 
His  gallant  exploit  53 

II.  THE  UNKNOWN  FORM         -         -         53 
Death,  in  the  Riot,  the  Home  and 

the  battle  53 

One  face  among  a  thousand     -         54 
The  Messenger  of  Peace          -         54 

III.  THE  REVEL  OF  DEATH  •         56 
The  drop  from  the  ceiling      •         56 
Not  blood  but  wine          -        -         57 
The  last  drop  from  the  Goblet         58 

IV.  THE  WISSAHIKON  -        -        59 
A  poem  of  everlasting  beauty          59 
The  Hessians  and  the  Continentals  60 
The  vengeance  of  the  Continentals  61 


I.  THE  ANCIENT  CHURCH 
WASHINGTON  and  his  Generals  be 
fore  the  graves  of  the  dead 

II.  FUNERAL  SERMON  OVER  THE  DEAD 
The  preacher  speaks  of  the  dead 
To  WASHINGTON 

t     Of  the  Heroes  of  the  Past 


Pag« 
75 


III. 


PRATER  FOR  THE  DEAD 
The  last  scene 


75 

7P 
76 

77 
78 
79 
80 


V.  THE  CRISIS  OF  THE  FIGHT  -  . 
Nine  o'clock  in  the  morning  - 
The  daring  of  the  Chieftains 
The  Curse  of  WASHINGTON  - 

VI.  "RETREAT."  - 

WASHINGTON'S  agony      - 
PART  THE  FIFTH, 

THE  LAST  SHOT  OF  THE  BATTLX. 
I.    THE  SOLDIER  AND  HIS  BURDEN      - 

The  group  by  the  wayside  - 
How  goes  the  battle !  -  - 
The  last  fight  of  the  veteran  - 
"Lost!"  .... 

R.    HOW  THB  LEGIONS  CAME  BACK  FROM 
BATTLE  ... 

The  terror  of  the  retreat  • 

The  wound  of  General  Nash   - 


65 
65 
65 
66 
67 
68 

68 
68 
69 
WASHINGTON'S  last  look  at  the  field  69 

III.  CAPTAIN  LEE  -        -        .         69 
His  daring  adventure  •        70 
He  foils  the  Hanovarians  71 

IV.  SUNSET  UPON  THE  BATTLE-FIELD       71 
The  spirit  of  desolation  -         71 
Death,  supreme,  among  the  wrecks 

of  battle       ...         72 
The  murdered  boy  72 

V.  THE  LEGEND  OF  GENERAL  AoNEW 

AGAIN    ^  ...  73 

HP  will  go  <  Home  !'  to  morrow  '      73 
The  last  dead  man  of  the  battle  day  74 
PART  THE  SIXTH, 

THE    FUNKRAL  OF  THE  DEAD  74 


BOOK  SECOND. 
THE  WISSAHIKON. 

Introduction — the  beauty  of  the 
stream  and  dell — a  gleam  of  the 

Indian  maids  of  old  85 

I.  THE  CONSECRATION    OF  THE  DfiLIV-  

ERER            -             .             .             .  86 

The  Monastery  S7 
A  strange  scene  88 
The  Priest  of  Wissahikon  -  89 
The  last  day  of  1773  -  .  90 
A  wild  superstition  -  -  91 
The  new  World,  the  Ark  of  Free 
dom  ....  92 
Prayer  of  the  father  and  son  -  93 
The  Deliverer  comes  94 
The  Prophet  speaks  to  him  -  95 
A  maiden  looks  upon  the  scene  96 
The  Deliverer  is  consecrated  -  97 
He  takes  the  oath  -  -  98 
WASHINGTON  visits  the  ruins  98 

II.  THE  MIDNIGHT  DEATH               -  99 

Scene  on  the  Wissahikon  at  mid 
night       ....  99 

Ellen  100 

Old  Michael  meets  the  Tory  band  101 

The  Parricide           -        -        -  102 

The  Orphan's  curse         -        -  103 
The  yell  of  the  dying  horse  and 

his  rider          -        -  104 

III.  THE  BIBLE  LEGEND  OF  THE  Wis-  ' 

SAHIKON           -         -         -  104  ' 

A  memory  of  "  Paoli !"          «  104 

The  ordeal      -        -        -  105 

The  Old  and  New  Testaments  106 

This  speaks,  Life,  that,  Death  106 

The  hand  of  Providence          -  107 

[V.  THE  TEMPTATION  OF  WASHINGTON  107 

Washington  in  prayer             -  108 

The  stranger  in  the  red  uniform  108 

A  Dukedom  for  the  Rebel        -  10S 

Scorn  from  the  Rebel  iv  the  King  1 1C 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


Page 
WASHINGTON  AS  DUKE,  KING 

AND  REBEL  -        -     111 

The  Viceroy  WASHINGTON  -  111 
He  is  presented  to  the  King  -  112 
He  is  crowned  in  Independence 


Hall 


-     113 


XI. 


He  is  beheaded  on  Tyburn  Hill  113 
As  HE  is!  -  -  -  -  114 

VI.  THE  HERO  WOMAN  -         -     115 
The  block  house  among  the 

woods  -         -        -     115 

The  young  girl  beholds  her 

father's  danger  -  -  116 
She  loads  the  rifle  -  -  117 
A  terrible  picture  -  -117 

She  points  the  rifle  to  the  pow 
der  keg          -        -        -118 

VII.  KINO  GEORGE  IN  WEBTMINSTIB 

ABUT  -  -  -  119 

An  afternoon  among  the  dead  119 
How  the  good  king  looked  -  120 
How  he  scorned  the  widow's 

prayer  -  -  -  120 

What  strange  sights  he  saw  •  121 
Orphans  curse  him  !  -  122 

He  visits  Valley  Forge  -  123 

WASHINGTON  prays  against  him  124 
He  goes  mad  again  -  -  125 
V1IL  VALLBT  FORGE  -  -  -  126 
The  Tory  and  his  daughter 

Mary  -  -  -  126 

The  plot  to  entrap  WASHINGTON  127 
The  Room  on  the  Right  and  the 

Room  on  the  left  -  -  128 
The  old  man  beholds  his  victim  129 
The  last  word  of  the  death- 

stricken  -  -  -  130 
IX.  THE  MANSION  ON  THE  SCHUTL- 

Kilt.         -  -  -  -131 

The  falls  ofSchuylkill  -  -  131 
A  scene  of  the  olden  time  -  132 
The  last  secret  of  Cornelius 

Agrippa         ...     133  ni. 
The  Sister,  in  her  Vision  sees 

her  brother  -        -     134 

Amable  in  danger  -     134 

The  libertine  enjoys  the  sight 
of  his  intended  victim — 
the   agony  of  the  dying 
man       -        -        -        .     135 
4  red  Indian          -        -        -     136 
A  white  Indian       -  -1371 


II. 


The  Virgin  Widow        -        .  133 
'  Do  not  lift  the  coffin-lid  from 

the  face  of  the  dead  !'    -  139 

Indian  to  the  last            -        .  139 

THE  GRAVEYARD    OF  GERMAN- 
TOWN  -          .          .140 

Its  memories  of  God  and  Im 
mortality       ...  140 

A    father — a    Mother — two 

sisters!           -        -        .  140 

The  old  Quaker  and  the  Skel 
etons  -  141 
A  rough  battle  picture  -  -  142 
'He  saw  WASHINGTON!'  -  143 
— « Cornwallis !'  .  .  144 
"  REMEMBER  PAOLI  !"  -  -  144 
The  camp  fire  of  Mad  Anthony  144 
The  Massacre  -  .  -  145 
Stony  Point  .  146 

How  Anthony  •  Remembered 
Panli!' 


148 


BOOK  THIRD. 
BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 

THE  MOTHER  AND  HER  BABE  151 
Scene  in  a  New  England  church, 

one  hundred  years  ago  151 
The  strange  vision  of  the 

Mother  -  -  .152 
The  Babe  grown  to  Manhood — 

the  Child  changed  into  a 

Devil  -  -  -153 

One  drop  of  virtue,  in  a  sea  of 

crimes!         ...     153 

THE  DRUGGIST  OF  NEW  HAVKN  154 
The  fearful  nature  of  this  his 
tory        -        -        .        -154 
The   deformed    Children   of 

history  155 
The  Druggist  -  -  -  155 
How  he  became  a  Soldier  -  jtf>6 
Ticonderoga !  156 
THE  MARCH  THROUGH  THE  WIL 
DERNESS  ...  157 

Napoleon  and  Arnold     -         -     158 
WASHINGTON  and  Arnold,  —  in 
terview  "  Continental."    -     158 
The  Kennebec — a  lone  Indian     159 
The  Murder  of  a  Priest  at  the 

Altar,  by  White  Savages  16% 
Arnold  claims  the  Wilderness— 

the  Prophecy  161 


16 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


IV. 


V. 


VII. 


fir 


Page 

THE  RITXR  or  THE  DEAD  -  162 
The  Banner  of  the  Stars  -  162 
The  Lake  -  -  -  162 

The  fearful  dangers  of  Arnold  and 

his  men  -        -     161 

He  sees  QUEBEC  !  •        -     163 

THE  ATTACK  ON  QUEBEC  -  163 
Montgomery  and  Arnold  pledge 

their  Faith  on  the  heighths 

of  Abraham  -        -     16 

Arnold,  with  his  Men,  advances 

to  the  first  barrier  -  165 
Arnold  in  his  glory  -  -  166 
Aaron  Burr  bends  over  the 

Corse  of  Montgomery  -  167 
Arnold  in  the  madness  of  the 

battle  -        -        -     168 

THE  WAR-HORSE  LUCIFER       -     169 


Retreat  of  the  American  army  — 

incident  in  the  career  of 

Arnold           -        -        -  169 

THE  ApE-and-  VIPER  GOD         -  170 

The  renown  of  Arnold  -        -  170 

The  Spirit  of  Party        -        -  170 

The  injustice  of  Congress  to 

Arnold           -        -        -  171 

His  adventure  near  Danbury  172 

THE  BRIDAL-EYE                      -  172 

The  festival  and  wager          -  173 

The  Apparition              -        -  173 
The  bloody  scalp  and  long 

black  hair              -        -  175 

An  awful  bridal  Eve  !            -  176 

THE  BLACK  HORSE,  AND  HIS 
RIDER  ;  OR  "  WHO  WAS 

THE  HKHO  OP  SARATOGA  1"  176 

Horatio  Gates  before  his  tent  176 

THE  Black  Horse  and  his  Rider  177 


"Ho!  WARREN!  forward!" 
The  scene  with  the  retreating 
soldiers          - 


178 


179 
180 
180 


A  strange  spectacle ! 

The  crisis  of  the  conflict 

In  the  moment  of  peril,  the  Cham 
pion  of  the  day  appears      181 

The  Battle  is  won — fate  of  the 
Black  Horse  and  his  rider 
— meanness  of  Gates  -  182 

Arnold  the  Conqueror  -     183 

ARNOLD  THE  MILITARY  COM 
MANDER  OP  PHILADELPHIA  183 

The  aisle  of  Christ  Church    -•    183  j 


Pag* 

The  Hero  of  Quebec  and  his 

Bride  -        -        -     184 

The  Tory  Aristocracy  of  Phila 
delphia  -  -  -184 

Its  cowardice,  meanness  and 

pretension     ...     185 

The  difficulty  of  Arnold's 

position          ...     180 

His  long  expected  trial  and  the 
offences  of  which  he  was 
found  guilty  -  -  187 

The  nature  of  these  offences       188 

A  court  of  History,  for  the  trial 

of  Arnold's  chief  accuser  189 

WHO  WAS  THIS  ACCUSER  !       -     19C 

General  Cadwallader  and  the 
Adjutant  General  of  the 
army — their  conversation 
in  1776  .  .  .  19f 

Serious   charges    against  the 

Adjutant  General  -     194 

The  summing  up  of  the  evi 
dence  ...     19) 

Arnold's  memorable  words    -  192 
XL      THE  DISGRACE  OF  ARNOLD       -  192 
The  day  of  the  reprimand     -  192 
He  cannot '  live  down  persecu 
tion'               -        -        -  193 
The  scene  of  the  Reprimand  194 
The  portrait  of  the  Accuser  195 
KIT.    ARNOLD  AT  LU.NDSDOWNB        -  196 
He  meditates  the  Future        -  196 
His  Palace— his  Wife— his 

Infamy  -        -        -  197 

The  silent  influence  of  his 

Wife  ...     198 

XIII.  ARNOLD  THE  TRAITOR    -         -  199 
The  struggle          -        -        -  199 
Three  visitors        ...  200 
The  Dispatch  to  Sir  Henry 

Clinton  ...  201 

Arnold  alone  with  his  wife    -  201 

XIV.  THE  FALL  OF  Lucifer      -        -  201    , 
Tragedy  and  Common-Place  -  201 
The  Breakfast  table  of  the 

Traitor  -  -  202 
The  wife  and  the  babe  of  the 

Traitor  -  -  -  203 
The  expected  Guest,  does  not 

come  ...  204 

The  bursting  of  the  thunder-bolt  205 

Arnold  under  the  British  flag  -  204 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


17 


rv. 


learns  the 
Treason         - 

The  Mother  and  WASHINGTON 

The  Ship  Vulture  and  its  Pas 
senger  ... 

TH»  TULIP-POPLAR,  OR  THK 
POOR  MEN  HKROES  OF 
THE  REVOLUTION 

Seven  men  watch  for  robbers 


Page 

207 
208 

209 


210 
210 


The  day-dream  of  the  wayfarer  211 
Three  men  of  the  seven,  arrest 

the  tiaveller  -  -  212 
The  Pass  of  Arnold  -  -  213 
The  development  -  -  214 
The  bribe  -  -  -  215 
A  prisoner,  a  spy  and  the  Vul 
ture  in  sight!  -  -  216 
The  Poor  Man  Heroes  of  the 

Revolution             -        -  217 
The  blunder  by  which  Arnold 

escaped          -        -        -  218 

XVI.  THK  KNIGHT  OF  THE  MKSCHI- 

ANZA  ...  219 

A  scene  of  romance  -  219 

The  Tournament  -  -  220 

The  scene  sadly  changed  -  221 

The  Gallows  -  -  -  221 

The  victim  for  the  Sacrifice  -  222 
The  Knight  of  the  Meschianza 

dies  -  -  223 

Flowers  on  the  Gibbet  -  223 

XVII.  JOHK  CHAMPE        -         -         -  224 
The  luxurious  chamber          -  224 
A  mysterious  visitor      -        -  225 

The  Ghost  of  John  Andre         -  226 
The  wife  of  Arnold  and  the 

Ghost              -  227 

WASHINGTON  in  his  Tent       -  228 

A  Knight  of  the  Revolution    -  229 

Only  one  way  to  save  Andre  !  230 

The  Camp  of  Lee's  Legion     -  231 

John  Champe         -        -        -  232 

The  Deserter          -        -        -  233 

The  Pursuit            -        -        -  234 

The  stratagem        -        -        -  235 

The  hounds  at  fault        -        -  236 

John  Champe,  the  doomed  man  237 

«  Powhatan  save  your  master!"  238 

The  Crisis              -         -        -  239 

Lee's  laughter        -        -        -  240 

A  beautiful  woman        •        -  241 


A  shadow  of  death,  in  the 

festival 
Arnold's  Oath 
Champe  alone  with  Arnold 
WASHINGTON'S  letter 
The  memory  of  the  gallant 

Knight 
How  he  died 
Vengeance  upon  the  Double 

Traitor 


Page 

242 
243 
244 
245 

246 
246 

248 
249 


The  Phantom  of  Arnold's  life 
The  Man  who  has  not  one 

friend  in  the  world        •    250 
Lee's  encampment  again — 

scene  changed  -    250 

"  CHAMPE  a  brave  and  honest 

man !"  -        -        -    251 

Explanation  of  the  Mystery  -  252 
One  of  the  noblest  names  in 

history  ...    353 

XVIII.  THE  TEMPTATION  OF  SIR  HEN 

RY  CLINTON  -  -  253 

A  calm  evening  and  a  cloudless 

soul  -  -  -  253 

Sir  Henry  Clinton  shudders  at 

the  picture  -  -  254 

Exchange  the  Traitor  for  the 

Spy  -  -  -  255 

Sir  Henry's  terrible  temptation  256 
Arnold's  sneer  -  :  -  257 

XIX.  THE  SISTERS  -         -        -     257 
A  flower  garden     ...     257 
The  bud  and  the  moss  rose   -    258 
The  Sisters  talk  of  the  absent    259 
The  Presentiment  of  the  Second 

of  October  -        -    268 

The  return  of  the  aged  soldier  261 
The  fatal  intelligence  -  -  261 
The  Brother's  Star  -  -  262 

XX.  ANDRE  THE  SPY  -         -     263 
Andre   a   partner  in   Arnold's 

Conspiracy  -  -  263 

Tne  Wife  of  Arnold,  also  a 

Conspirator  -  -  263 

WASHINGTON  condemned  him 

justly  ...  263 

Tears  for  the  fate  of  Andre  -  264 

XXI.  NATHAN  HALE        -         -         -    264 
The  farewell  of  the  student 

soldier  -        -        -    264 

The  Blessing  of  the  aged 

Mother  -  -    26fi 


65 


I'ABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Betrothed                                -  266 

The  Cell  of  the  doomed  Spy  -  266 
The  Martyr  who  has  perilled  Honor 

for  his  Country  -        -        -  267 

The  last  night  of  the  Doomed  268 

The  Death  of  the  Martyr              -  269 

No  monument  for  him  !                 •  270 

XXII.  THE  MARTYR  OF  THE  SOUTH       -  270 
Gloom  in  Charleston                     •  270 
The  Gallows  and  the  Murderer    -  271 
The  Prayer  of  the  Sister  and  the 

Children            -         -         -  272 
The  Response  of  the  titled  Murderer  273 

The  farewell  beside  the  gibbet     -  274 

Theory  of  the  Idiot  Boy    -        -  275 

The  contempt  of  WASHINGTON     •  276 

XXIII.  ARNOLD  IN  VIRGINIA                 •  276 
Arnold  the  Destroyer           -        -  276 
Despised    by  all  —  the   men  who 

bought  him,  and    the   men 

whom  he  would  have  sold  277 

A  strange  legend  -  -  -  277 
The  Benighted  traveller  and  the 

old  hunter  -  -  -  278 

An  old  soldier's  opinion  of  Arnold  279 

The  emotion  of  the  stranger  -  280 
/The  old  hunter  sees  a  vision  of 

the  Evil  Spirit            -         •  281 

XXIV.  THE    THREE    WORDS  WHICH    FOL 

LOWED  BENEDICT  ARNOLD 

TO  HIS  GRAVE  •        • 

The  burning  of  New  London  and 

Fort  Griswold  -         - 


The  death  of  Leydard  -  - 
British  magnanimity  -  - 

The  guilt  and  weakness  of  King 

George  -         - 

The  three  words  .  -  - 
Talleyrand  and  Arnold  -  - 
The  Remorse  of  the  Traitor  • 
The  obscurity  of  his  death  - 

XXV.  ARNOLD  ;  HIS  GLORY,  HIS  WRONGS, 

HIS  CRIMES        •  - 

His  early  life     •  - 

The  prime  of  his  manhood  -  - 
WASHINGTON'S  opinion  of  him  • 
His  marriage  —  his  enemies  —  his 

postponed  trial  >         - 

Review  of  his  offences,  difficulties 

and  treason        - 
Motives  of  the  Author  in  this  dark 

history  -          .         .292 


282 

282 
283 
283 

283 

284 
285 
286 
286 

287 
287 
288 
289 

290 
-    291 


•      Page 

The  Ciree  lines,  which  comprise  the 

whole  burden  of  this  Tragedy  29S 

XXVI. THE  RIGHT  ARM  -        -  293 

An  awful  death-bed  294 

A  superhuman  Remorse       -         -  295 
The  last  memory  of  the  fallen 

Lucifer  -         -         -  296 

The  Right  arm  ...  296 

BOOK  THE  FOURTtt 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

I.        THE  GLORY  OF  THE  LAND  OF  PKNN  299 

Pennsylvania  neglected  by  history     299 
Her  monuments          ...    300 


II. 


III. 


IV. 


V. 


VI. 


VI 


THE  PROPHET  OF  THK  BRANDY- 
WINE        .... 

Description  of  the  Valley  of  Bran- 
dywine  ... 

Prophecy  uttered  forty  years  before 
the  battle 

THE  FEAJI  OF  WAR 

The  landing  of  Howe 

THE  GATHERING  OF  THE  HOSTS  • 

The  encampment  of  WASHINGTON 
and  his  Men      ... 

Howe,  Comwallis  and  their  hire 
lings         .... 

THE  PREACHER  OF  BRANDYWINE 
The  Preacher  Heroes  of  the  Revo 
lution        -  - 
Hymn  to  the  Preacher  Heroes 
Revolutionary  Sermon 
Prayer  of  the  Revolution    • 
THK  DAWN  OF  THE  FIGHT 
WASHINGTON  holds  council  under 

the  chesmit  tree 

La  Fayette         .... 
The  attack  at  Chadd's  Ford 


THE  QUAKER  TEMPLE 
Survey  of  the  battle-field    - 
Howe  comes  to  battle 

VIII.  WASHINGTON  COMES  TO  BATTLE 
The  approach  of  the  American 

Banner  •        • 

IX.  THE  HOUR  OF  BATTLE 

The  moment  before  the  contest 

begins 

Howe  giVes  the  signal 
The  battle 

X.  THE  POETRY  OF  BATTLE 


301 

302 

303 
306 
306 
306 

307 

308 
309 

309 
310 
312 
314 
315 


315 

316 

317 

318~) 

319 

320 


321 
322 

322 
322 
32J 
324 


T\BLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


19 


Page 
The  Idiot  King  and  the  Warrior 

Form        -        -        -        -324 

JLL      LORD  PERCY'S  DREAM.         -  .  325 

The  story  of  Percy,  told  by  him  to 

Cornwallis         -         -  -  325 

He  beholds  his  Dream         -  .  326 

His  charge          -         -         -  -  327 

He  meets  his  Indian  Brother  •  328 

XII.  THE  LAST  HOUR         -        -  -  329 
Retreat  of  WASHINGTON      -  -  329 
Daring  of  the  Boy  La  Fayette  -  329 

XIII.  PULASKI             -         -         -  -  330 
In  his  glory        -         -  330 
How  he  spoke  English         -  -  331 
WASHINGTON  a  man  of  genius  -  332 
Pulaski  rescues  the  CHIEFTAIN  -  333 
Night  comes  down  on  Pulaski  -  333 

XIV    WASHINGTON'S  LAST  CHARGE  AT 

BRANDVWINK  -        -  334 

WASHINGTON  the  Man  -  334 

The  key  to  his  character     -         -  335 

He  surveys  the  battle          -         -  336 
He  goes  down,  to  say  to  the  British 

—"farewell!"  -        -  337 

The  carnage  of  his  last  charge     -  338 

La  Fayette  wounded  -         •  339 

The  smile  of  the  Brandy  wine       -  340 

XV.  THE  HUNTER  SPY  •  -  -  340 
Scene  among  the  mountains  -  340 
WASHINGTON,  the  Colonel  at  Brad- 
dock's  field  -  -  -  341 
The  three  fugitives  -  -  342 
The  sleeping  spy  •  •  343 
His  punishment  ...  346 
The  Boy  looks  in  his  father's  face  347 
A  horrible  picture  -  .  •  348 

XVL  THE  SON  OF  THE  HUNTER  SPY  -  348 
The  old  man  and  his  memory  -  349 
The  peasant  girl,  Mary  -  -  350 
The  son  of  the  Hunter  Spy  -  352 

The  arm  of  the  maiden,  supplies  the 

place  of  a  bolt  354 

The  Black  Hercules  -  -  355 

The  haystack  -  -  356 

The  son,  avenges  the  death  of  the 

father  -  -  -  358 

The  infamous  butcheries  of  England 

and  the  crimes  of  King  George  359 

The  Vow  of  the  Negro  Sampson       360 

£*   t.  BLACK  SAMPSON  360 


Page 

Flowers  from  ashes  .     360 

War,  the  parent  of  many  virtues  -  361 
The  American  Union  a  sacred 

thing  .  .  .  361 
The  guilt  of  the  wretch  who  would 

destroy  it  -  .  -  362 

The  memories  of  the  Negro  Prince  363 

The  outraged  Mary  364 

The  Dog — •  DEBBIL,'  -  -  365 

Sampson  prepares  to  '  go  a-mowing.'  366 

He  mows  British  stubble  -  -  367 

The  last  scene  of  Mary  -  -  368 
The  fate  of  the  Son  of  the  Hunter 

Spy           ....  370 

XVIII.  THE  MECHANIC  HERO  OF  BRAN- 

DYWINE  -  -  -  3F2 

A  scene  of  British  mercy  •  -372 
The  strange  battle-cry  -  -  374 
The  three  last  shots  of  the  dying 

man          ....     Jfl5 

XIX.  ANTHONY  WAYNE  AT  BRANDYWINE  ,'175 
The  boy  and  the  mimic  fight        -     J175 
The  Man  and  the  bloody  battle    -     5*76 
Wayne  and  his  Roan  horse  -     3<77 
His  riflemen  drive  back  the  Hes 
sians         ....    378 

The  doubt  of  WASHINGTON  -  379 
Wayne  beholds  the  battle  of  the 

afternoon  -         -  -  381 

The  appearance  of  Kniphausen  -  383 

The  charge  of  Mad  Anthony  .  384 

XX.  FORTY-SEVEN  YEARS  AFTER  THE 

BATTLE  -  -  -      386 

La  Fayette  comes  again  to  the 

battle-field         -         -         -     386 

His  emotion  as  he  contrasts  the  con 
dition  of  America  with  that  of 
France  -  -  387 

BOOK  THE  FIFTH. 
THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1776. 

THE  DAY. 

The  old  state  house  -  -  -  391 
The  old  man,  the  boy,  and  the  BELL  392 
The  message  of  the  Bell  to  the 

world  -  -  .  -  393 
The  fifty-six,  and  the  Speech  of  the 

UNKNOWN         -  -    394 

The  message  of  the  Declaration  -  395 
The  New  Exodus  of  God's  People, 

the  Poor  -         -         -     396 

The  signing  of  the  Parchment      -     397 


20 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


Page 
D         PHE  APOSTLE  TO  THE  NEW 

WORLD  ....  398 
The  River  shore,  two  hundred 

yean  ago         ...  398 

The  Landing  of  the  Apostle         -  400 

The  Mission  of  The  Apostle         •  401 

The  Pipe  of  Peace     -        -        -  402 

fll        «  BACK  EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  TEARS !"   403 

The  Deduction  traced  from  the 
Hall  of  Independence  to  the 
Mount  of  Calvary       -         -     403 
The  Hut  of  the  Carpenter  •    404 

Godhead  enshrined  in  the  form  of 

Toil  -  -  -  -  405 
The  Bride  of  the  Living  God  -  406 
The  Doubt  of  Divinity  •  407 

IV.      THE  WILDERNESS  •        -    407 

The  skeleton  people  -        -    408 

The  self-communion  of  the  Nazarene  409 
The  Prince  of  this  world  •  -  410 
The  Panorama  of  Empire  -  -  411 
Ninevah — Rome,  Imperial — Rome, 

Papal  -         -         -411 

Fhe  bloody  grandeur  of  the  Mon 
ster  Empire        ...    412 
The  voice  of  the  Tempter,  to  every 

Reformer  -         -         -     413 

The  Pharasee  of  the  Pulpit  -    414 

The  Viper  of  the  Press  •  -  415 
The  Ministering  of  the  Angels  415 

n.      "THE  OUTCAST"  •  416 

Sabbath  in  the  synagogue    •         •     416 

The  appearance  of  the  Carpenter's 

Son          ....    417 

He  announces  the  great  Truth,  in 
which  is  built  the  Declara 
tion  .  -  418 

The  "  Infidel"  is  thrust  from  the 

Synagogue         -  -     419 

The  Godhead  shines  from  the  brow 

of  Toil  ...     420 

The  last  look  of  the  Outcast  upon 

his  Home  .         .  421 

The  name  of  the  Outcast  covers  all 

the  earth  -         -         -     423 

The  Coming  of  the  day  of  God          423 

HI       THE  HOPE  OF  EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED 

YEARS  -  -  423 

The  fate  of  the  Saviour's  mission 

in  1775  ...  423 

Pope  George  of  England  and  his 

Missionaries  .  424 


V1U 


IX. 


X. 


X. 


XI. 


xn. 


The  solitary  man  on  shipboard 
THE  COUNCIL  OF  FREEMEN         -    427> 
WASHINGTON,  Adams,  Rush,  Frank 
lin,  in  council  with  the  Un 
known  stranger  -         -     421 
The  word  u  Independence"  first 

•poken  >        .        *    426 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  PEN  -  -  427 
The  author — his  garret — the  battle 

which  he  fights  .  -  427 
a  Common  Sense"  in  a  book  428 

The  name  of  the  Stranger  429 

THE  AUTHOR-SOLDIER        •  429 

He  follows  the  Army  of  WASH 
INGTON  ...    429 
The  libeller  of  the  dead      -  429 
THE  PEOPLE  AND  THE  CRIMINAL      430 
A  King  on  Trial ;  his  Crime,  trea 
son  to  the  People        -         -     431 
King  George,  guilty  of  treason  and 

murder  ....  432 
Thomas  Paine  pleads  for  the  life 

Louis  Capet       •        -  433 

KING  GUILLOTINE  ...  433 
Death  of  Louis  and  Marie 

Antoinette  ...  433 
The  offerings  to  the  bloody  Majesty 

of  France          -        -        -    434 

TRUTH  FROM  THE  CARNAGE         -    434 

The  principle  of  the  French  Revo 
lution  ...    434 

The  hideous  murders  that  have  been     *\. 
done  in  the  name  of  God     -     435  \ 

The  Reign  of  Terror  contrasted  with 
the  Massacre  of  St.  Bartho 
lomew      ....    436 


XIII. 


XIV 


XV 


THE  REIGN  OF  THE 
TERROR 


KING   OF 

-        .    436 
The  chamber  in  the  palace  -     436 

'The  orange-faced  dandy'  and  his 

Death-list          -        -        -    437 

THE  FALL  OF  KING  GUILLOTINE  437 
The  Hall  of  the  National  Assembly 

— the  fear  of  Robespierre  -  437 
The  Death  of  the  King  of  the  reign 

of  Terror  •        -        -    438 

THE  BIBLE  -        -        -    43<T 

The  Palace-Prison  of  the  Luxem 
burg         -        -  439 
Genius  profaned  in  the  M  Age  of 

Reason"  -  440 


TABLE    OF    CONTENT*. 


2] 


L 


Page 
The  beauty,  tenderness,  truth  of 

the  Bible  -  441 

The  mistake  of  Thomas  Paine  -  442 
My  motives  in  the  discussion  of  his 

character,  writings  and  life  443 
Christianity  not  the  dogma  of  a  creed 

but  the  Religion  of  the  Heart  444 

THE  DEATH-BED  OF  THOMAS  PAINE   445 

A  dying  old  man         -  -     445 

The  hyena-fang  of  the  bigot,  enters 

his  soul  -         -         •     446 

A  Quaker  speaks  Hope !  to  the 

Infidel  -         -         -     446 

'  No  grave  for  your  bones,  in  Christ 
ian  burial  ground'       -         -    447 
He  dies  -         -        -        -    447 

While  we  pity  the  Deist,  we  should 

reverence  the  Patriot  448 


XVIL  REVIEW  OF  THE  HISTORT 


449 


XVIII.  THE  LAST  DAY  OF  JEFFERSON  AND 

ADAMS  -         -        -    449 

The  fourth  of  July,  1826  -  -  449 
Filly  years  after  the  Great  Day  -  450 
The  Home  of  Quincy  -  -451 

The  Death  of  John  Adams  -    452 

The  Hermitage  of  Monticello  -  453 
The  Death  of  Thomas  Jefferson  -  454 
A  miracle  -  454 

A  dark  contrast  -     454 

SIX.    THE  NAMELESS  DEATH  455 

The  Prison  -         -    455 

The  Prisoner  ....  456 
An  infamous  law,  upheld  by  pirates 

and  assassins  in  broad  cloth      457 

U.     THE  LAST  OF  THE  SIGNERS          •    457 
Life,  leaf,  "light  mingle  in  Death  -     457 
The  old  man  dies  before  the  Cru 
cifix  -        -        -        -458 

THE  V 10 LATER  OF  THE  GRAVE. 
A  sequel  to  the  fourth  of  July,  1776  459 
The  vilest  Wretch  -  -  -  461 
The  man  who  blasphemes  the  Dead  462 
A  Traitor  coated  in  Gold  -  -  463 
The  Assassin  of  souls  -  -  464 

What  is,  ami  what  is  not,  "  well 

timed"  ...     465 

Glimpses  of  "  Common  Sense."  •  466 
The  old  malice  of  a  Tory  -  -  468 
Burke  the  Scyophant  -  -  469 

A  warning  to  Traitors'  descendants  470 
Th»  children  of  the  Author-Hero  471 


III. 


BOOK  THE  SIXTH. 
ROMANCE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 
MICHAEL  XXX:   A  TRADITION 

OF  THE  TWO  WORLDS              .  475 

The  Soldier  returning  home         -  475 

The  war-horse  Old  Legion            -  476 

The  Memory  of  Alice                   .  477 

Home !                                           .  473 

The  foreboding  of  death      -         -  479 

The  Soldier  and  his  father           .  480 

The  Chamber  of  Alice         -  48} 

The  curtained  bed               -  482 


The  Revelation 


-    483' 


The  death  of  the  white  horse  484 

The  Covenant  of  Blood        -        .  485 

The  dream  of  the  Godlike  face  486 

The  bracelet  of  Alice  -  487 

Alice !  488 

The  Revenge  of  the  Legionary  489 
Michael  the  soldier,  and  Michael  the 

General,  Marshal  and  Duke  490 

THE  NINTH  HOUR  491 

A  scene  in  Valley  Forge  491 

WASHINGTON  and  the  Sergeant    -    492 
A  strange  volunteer  for  a  work  of 

death  -         -         -    493 

The  Bridegroom  looks  upon  the 

Bride        ...  494 

The  fear  of  the  word,  Nine          -    495 
The  last  kiss  496 

An  old  mansion  in  a  dark  dell     -     497 
"  Death  to  WASHINGTON  !"  -  498 

The  Ordeal        -         -  499 

The  Spy  500 

"  AH  !" — how  the  memory  of  child 
hood  melts  the  heart  of  stone  501 
A  strange  revelation  in  the  history 

of  a  soul  -         -         -    502 

Again  the  fatal  number — Nine!       503 
WASHINGTON — Wayne — La  Fayette 
— Hamilton — Burr,  the  Wed 
ding  Guests        -         -        -    503 
WASHINGTON'S  trust   -         -  504 

The  fallen  goblet        -         -  505 

An  half  hour  of  suspense — the  guests 
await  the  explanation  of  the 
mystery  •  506 

The  Bride  and  Bridegroom  alone       506 
The  Ninth  hour  of  the  Ninth  Day 
of  the  Ninth  Year 


The  Sight  which  WASHINGTON 
beheld 


507 


508 


22 


TABLE    OF    CONTENTS. 


IV.      THE  PREACHER-GENERAL 


Page 
509  VI. 


L 


Sabbath  Noon — the  Church  of  St. 

John        •  -509 

The  Sacrament  •        •        -510 

Strange  words  from  a  Preacher  •  511 
Beneath  the  Gown,  or  Here's  heart  512 
The  Preacher-General  -  -  513 
His  adventure  ...  514 

Yorktown  -         .         -         -    514 

Who  was  the  Preacher-General    -     515 


V         TRENTON,  or  the  footstep  in  the 

snow,  a  tradition  of  Christ 
mas  night,  1776         •        -516 
The  Poetry  of  Home        '  -         -    516 
The  footstep  in  the  Snow  517 

"Trenton!"        -  518 


VTI. 


Pag» 
THE  PRIN-ER-BOY  AND  THE  AM- 

BASSADOR  -  519 

A  picture  of  Toil  -  -  -  519 

A  scene  of  Night,  Music,  Romance  520 

The  true  Nobleman  of  God  -  521 

THE  REST  OF  THE  PILGRIM  522 

The  Jerusalem  of  the  Soul  -  522 

TheRockofWissahikon  ,-  -  522 
Legends  of  the  Lost-Nations  of 

America  •  -  523 

A  sublime  vision  -  •  523 

The  three  Empires  -  -  524 
Legends  of  the  golden  and  bloody 

land  -  -  -  -  £24 

The  Soldier  of  the  New  Crusade  525 

The  Author  to  the  reader  •  •  526 
A  IH-VV  pilgrimage  • 


1 


BOOK  FIRST, 

THE  BATTLE  OF  GERMANTOWN, 


(23) 


THE  BATTLE  OF  GEKMANTOWN. 


"  And  when  servile  Fraud  stalks  through  the  land,  and  Genius  starves  in  his  ceil, 
while  upstart  Imbecility  rides  abroad  in  chariots  ;  when  man  is  degenerate,  public 
faith  is  broken,  public  honor  violated,  then  will  we  wander  forth  into  the  awful  shadow* 
of  the  Past,  and  from  the  skeletons  of  the  battle-field  evoke  the  spirits  of  that  giant 
time,  calling  upon  their  forms  of  unreal  majesty  for  the  mighty  secret  which  mad« 
them  the  man-gods  of  that  era  of  high  deeds  and  glorious  purposes,  THE  GHOSTLY  PAST." 


tfte 


THE  BATTLE  EVE. 

I.—  THE  RED  CROSS  IN  PHILADELPHIA. 

TOLL  —  toll  —  toll  !  The  State  House  bell,  that  once  rung  the  birth-day  of 
Freedom,  now  tolled  its  knell. 

It  was  a  sud  day  for  Philadelphia,  a  sad  day  for  the  nation,  when  the 
pomp  of  British  banners  and  the  gleam  of  British  arms  were  in  her  streets 
and  along  her  avenues  ;  when,  as  far  as  eye  could  reach,  was  seen  the  long 
array  of  glaring  red  coats,  with  the  sunbeams  of  a  clear  September  day  fall 
ing  on  helm  and  cuirass,  shining  like  burnished  gold. 

It  was  a  sad  and  gloomy  day  for  the  nation,  when  the  Congress  was 
forced  to  flee  the  old  provincial  town  of  William  Penn,  when  the  tories 
paraded  the  streets  with  loud  hurrahs,  with  the  British  lion  waving  over 
head,  while  the  whigs  hung  their  heads  in  shame  and  in  despair. 

True,  the  day  was  calm  and  bright  overhead  ;  true,  the  sky  was  clear 
and  the  nipping  air  of  autumn  gave  freshness  to  the  mind  and  bloom  to  the 
cheek  ;  true  it  was,  the  city  was  all  alive  with  the  glitter  of  processions, 
and  the  passing  to  and  fro  of  vast  crowds  of  people  ;  but  the  processions 
were  a  dishonor  to  our  soil,  the  crowds  hurried  to  and  fro  to  gaze  upon  the 
living  monuments  of  the  defeat  of  Brandywine  —  the  armed  and  arrogant 
British  legions  thronging  the  streets  of  Philadelphia. 

They  came  marching  along  in  front  of  the  old  State  House,  on  their  way 
to  their  barracks  in  the  Northern  Liberties.  The  scene  was  full  of  strange 
and  startling  interest.  The  roofs  of  the  State  House  arose  clearly  in  the 
autumn  air,  each  peak  and  cornice,  each  gable-end  and  corner,  shown  in  futt 
and  distinct  outline,  with  the  trees  of  Independence  Square  towering  greenly 
in  the  rear  of  the  fabric,  while  up  into  the  clear  sky  arose  the  State  House 
2  (25  > 


26  THE  BATTLE  OF  GERMANTOWN. 

•teeple,  with  its  solemn  bell  of  independence,  that  but  a  year  ago  sent  forth 
the  news  of  liberty  to  all  the  land,  swinging  a  welcome  to  the  British  host — 
a  welcome  that  sounded  like  the  funeral  knell  of  new  world  freedom.  The 
columns  of  the  army  were  passing  in  front  of  Independence  Hall.  Along 
Chesnut  street,  as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  shone  the  glittering  array  of 
sword  and  bayonet,  with  the  bright  sunshino  falling  over  the  stout  forns  of 
the  British  troopers,  mounted  on  gallant  war  steeds,  and  blazing  with  bur 
nished  cuirass  and  polished  helm,  while  banner  and  pennon  waived  gaily 
overhead.  There,  treading  the  streets  in  all  the  flush  of  victory,  were  the 
regiments  of  British  infantry,  with  the  one  bold  front  of  their  crimson  attire 
flashing  in  the  light,  with  their  bayonets  rising  overhead  like  a  forest  of  steel, 
and  with  marks  of  Brandywine  written  on  many  a  whiskered  face  and 
burly  chest. 

And  at  their  head,  mounted  on  a  gallant  steed,  with  the  lordlings  of  his 
staff  around  him,  rode  a  tall  and  athletic  man,  with  a  sinewy  frame,  and  a 
calm,  placid  face,  wearing  an  even  smile  and  quiet  look,  seen  from  beneath 
the  shadow  of  his  plumed  chapeau,  while  his  gaudy  attire  of  crimson,  with 
epaulettes  of  gold  on  either  shoulder,  announced  Lord  Cornwallis,  the  second 
general  of  the  invading  army. 

And  as  the  General  glanced  around,  fixing  his  eye  proudly  upon  the 
British  banner,  waving  from  the  State  House  steeple,  as  his  glance  was  roet 
by  the  windows  of  Independence  Hall,  decorated  by  the  flags  of  the  British 
King,  a  proud  gleam  lit  up  his  calm  blue  eye ;  and  with  the  thought  of 
Brandywine,  came  a  vision  of  the  future,  speaking  eloquently  of  provinces 
subjugated,  rebels  overthrown  and  liberties  crushed. 

And  then  peals  of  music,  uttered  by  an  hundred  bands,  filled  the  street, 
and  startled  the  silence  of  the  State  House  avenues,  swelling  up  to  the 
heavens  with  notes  of  joy,  the  roll  of  drum,  the  shriek  of  bugle,  and  the 
clash  of  cymbal  mingling  in  grand  chorus.  The  banners  waved  more 
proudly  overhead,  the  spears,  the  bayonets,  and  helmets  shone  brighter  in 
the  light,  and  between  the  peals  of  music  the  loud  huzzas  of  the  crowd 
blackening  the  sidewalks,  looking  from  the  windows,  and  clinging  to  the 
trees,  broke  gladly  upon  the  air. 

Toll — toil — toll — the  solemn  notes  of  independence  bell  heralded,  with  an 
iron  tongue,  the  entrance  of  the  invaders  into  the  city ;  the  possession  of 
Philadelphia  by  the  British. 

It  was  a  grand  sight  to  see — the  windows  crowded  with  the  forms  of 
beauty,  waving  scarfs  in  the  air,  aged  matrons  lifting  little  children  on  high, 
who  clapped  their  hands  with  glee,  as  they  beheld  the  glimmer  of  arms  and 
the  glitter  of  steel,  the  streets  below  all  crimson  with  British  uniform,  ah 
music  and  all  joy,  the  side  walks  blackened  by  crowds  of  servile  tories  who 
shouted  till  their  loyal  throats  were  tired  "  Long  life  to  King  George — con- 
frision  to  Washington,  and  death  to  the  rebels  !" 

They  trooped  through  the  streets  of  Philadelphia  on  the  26th  of  Septcia 


THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  REBEL.  27 

ber,  1777;  just  fifteen  days  after  the  battle-day  of  Brandy  wine,  they  took 
possession  with  all  the  pomp  of  victory  ;  and  as  the  shades  of  twilight  sank 
down  over  the  town,  they  marched  proudly  into  their  barracks,  in  the 
Northern  Liberties. 

II.— THE  HAUNT  OF  THE  REBEL. 

And  where  was  Washington  ? 

Retreating  from  the  forces  of  Sir  William  Howe,  along  the  Schuylkill , 
retreating  with  brave  men  under  his  command,  men  who  had  dared  death  in 
a  thousand  shapes,  and  crimsoned  their  hands  with  the  carnage  of  Brandy- 
wine  ;  retreating  because  his  powder  and  ammunition  were  exhausted ;  be 
cause  his  soldiers  wanted  the  necessary  apparel,  while  their  hands  grasped 
muskets  without  lock  or  flint. 

The  man  of  the  American  army  retreated,  but  his  soul  was  firm.  The 
American  Congress  had  deserted  Philadelphia,  but  Washington  did  not 
despair.  The  British  occupied  the  surrounding  country,  their  arms  shone 
on  every  hill ;  their  banners  toyed  in  every  breeze ;  yet  had  George  Wash 
ington  resolved  to  strike  another  blow  for  the  freedom  of  this  fair  land 

The  calm  sunlight  of  an  autumnal  afternoon  was  falling  over  the  quiet 
valleys,  the  green  plains,  and  the  rich  and  rolling  woodland  of  an  undulating 
tract  of  country,  spreading  from  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Delaware  to  the 
hilly  shores  of  the  Schuylkill,  about  seven  miles  from  Philadelphia. 

The  roofs  of  an  ancient  village,  extending  in  one  unbroken  line  along  the 
great  northern  road,  arose  grey  and  massive  in  the  sunlight,  as  each  corniced 
gable  and  substantial  chimney  looked  forth  from  the  shelter  of  the  surround 
ing  trees.  There  was  an  air  of  quaint  and  rustic  beauty  about  this  village. 
Its  plan  was  plain  and  simple,  burdened  with  no  intricate  crossings  of  streets, 
no  labyrinthine  pathways,  no  complicated  arrangement  of  houses.  The 
fabrics  of  the  village  were  all  situated  on  the  line  of  the  great  northern  road, 
reaching  from  the  fifth  mile  stone  to  the  eighth,  while  a  line  of  smaller  vil 
lages  extended  this  "  Indian  file  of  houses"  to  the  tenth  milestone  from 
the  city. 

The  houses  were  all  stamped  with  marks  of  the  German  origin  of  their 
tenants.  The  high,  sloping  roof,  the  walls  of  dark  grey  stone,  the  porch 
before  the  door,  and  the  garden  in  the  rear,  blooming  with  all  the  freshness 
of  careful  culture,  marked  the  tenements  of  the  village,  while  the  heavy 
gable-ends  and  the  massive  cornices  of  every  roof,  gave  every  house  an  ap 
pearance  of  rustic  antiquity. 

Around  the  village,  on  either  side,  spread  fertile  farms,  each  cultivated 
like  a  garden,  varied  by  orchards  heavy  with  golden  fruit,  fields  burdened 
with  the  massive  shocks  of  corn,  or  whitened  with  the  ripe  buckwheat,  or 
tmbrowned  by  the  upturning  plough. 

The  village  looked  calm  and   peaceful  in  the  sunlight,  but  its  plain  and 


28  THE  BATTLE  OF  GERMA^TO  WiN. 

simple  people  went  not  forth  to  the  field  to  work  on  that  calm  autumnal 
afternoon.  The  oxen  stood  idly  in  the  barn-yard,  cropping  the  fragrant  hay, 
the  teams  stood  unused  by  the  farmer,  and  the  flail  was  silent  within  the 
barn.  A  sudden  spell  seemed  to  have  come  strangely  down  upon  the 
peaceful  denizens  of  Germantown,  and  that  spell  was  the  shadow  of  the 
British  banner  flung  over  her  fields  of  white  buckwheat,  surmounting  the 
dream-like  steeps  of  the  Wissakikon,  waving  from  Mount  Airy,  and  floating 
in  the  freslming  breeze  of  Chesnut  Hill. 

Had  you  ascended  Chesnut  Hill  on  that  calm  autumnal  afternoon,  and 
gazed  over  the  tract  of  country  opened  to  your  view,  your  eye  would  have 
beheld  a  strange  and  stirring  sight. 

Above  your  head  the  clear  and  boundless  sky,  its  calm  azure  giving  no 
tokens  of  the  strife  of  the  morrow  ;  declining  in  the  west,  the  gorgeous  sun 
pouring  his  golden  light  over  the  land,  his  beams  of  welcome  having  no 
omen  of  the  battle-smoke  and  mist  that  shall  cloud  their  light  on  the  morrow 
morn. 

Gaze  on  the  valley  below.  Germantown,  with  its  dark  grey  tenements, 
sweeps  away  to  the  south,  in  one  unbroken  line ;  farther  on  you  behold  the 
glitter  of  steeples,  and  the  roofs  of  a  large  city — they  are  the  steeples  and 
roofs  of  Philadelphia.  Yon  belt  of  blue  is  the  broad  Delaware,  and  yon 
dim,  dark  object  beyond  the  city,  blackening  the  bosom  of  the  waters,  is 
Fort  Mifflin,  recently  erected  by  General  Washington. 

Gaze  over  the  fields  of  Germantown  near  the  centre  of  the  village.  In 
every  field  there  is  the  gleam  of  arms,  on  every  hill-top  there  waves  a  royaj 
banner,  and  over  hill  and  plain,  toward  the  Schuylkill  on  the  one  side,  and 
trie  Delaware  on  the  other,  sweep  the  white  tents  of  the  British  army. 

Now  turn  your  gaze  to  the  north,  and  to  the  northwest.  The  valley 
opens  before  you,  and  fairer  valley  never  smiled  beneath  the  sun. 

Away  it  sweeps  to  the  northwest,  an  image  of  rustic  beauty,  here  a  rich 
sopse  of  green  woodland,  just  tinged  by  autumn,  there  a  brown  field,  yonder 
ihe  Wissahikon,  marking  its  way  of  light,  by  a  winding  line  of  silver,  in 
one  green  spot  a  village  peeping  out  from  among  the  trees  ;  a  little  farther 
on,  a  farmer's  dwelling  with  the  massive  barn  and  the  dark  grey  hay-stack ; 
on  every  side  life,  and  verdure,  and  cultivation,  mingled  and  crowded  to 
gether,  as  though  the  hand  of  God,  had  flung  his  richest  blessings  over  the 
valley,  and  clothed  the  land  in  verdure  and  in  beauty. 

Yonder  the  valley  sweeps  away  to  the  northwest ;  the  sun  shines  over  a 
dense  mass  of  woodland  rolling  away  to  the  blue  of  the  horizon.  Mark 
that  woodland  well,  try  and  discern  the  outline  of  every  tree,  and  count  the 
miles  as  you  gaze  upon  the  prospect. 

The  distance  from  Chesnut  Hill,  is  sixteen  weary  miles,  and  under  that 
mass  of  woodland,  beneath  the  shadows  of  those  rolling  fc  rests,  beside  tn* 
streams  hidden  from  your  eye,  in  distress  and  in  want,  in  defeat  ami  in 
danger,  rendevouz  the  bands  of  a  desperate,  though  gallant  army. 


THE  CAMP  OF  THE  BRITISHER.  29 

It  is  the  Continental  army,  and  they  encamp  on  the  banks  of  the  Skip- 
pack. 

Their  encampment  is  sad  and  still,  no  peals  of  music  break  upon  the 
woodland  air,  no  loud  hurrahs,  no  shouts  of  arrogant  victory.  The  morrow 
has  a  different  tale  to  tell,  for  by  the  first  flush  of  the  coming  morn,  a  meteor 
will  burst  over  the  British  Hosts  at  Germantown,  and  fighting  for  life,  for 
liberty,  will  advance  the  starved  soldiers  of  the  Continental  host. 

III.— THE  CAMP  OF  THE  BRITISHER. 

As  the  sun  went  down  on  the  3d  of  October,  1777,  his  last  beams  flung 
a  veil  of  golden  light  over  the  verdure  of  a  green  lawn,  that  extended  from 
the  road  near  the  head  of  Germantown,  bounded  along  the  village  street  by 
a  massive  wall  of  stone,  spreading  north  and  south,  over  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
while  toward  the  east,  it  swept  in  all  its  greenness  and  beauty,  for  the  dis 
tance  of  some  two  hundred  yards. 

A  magnificent  mansion  arose  towering  on  the  air,  a  mansion  built  of  grey 
stone,  with  a  steep  roof,  ornamented  by  heavy  cornices,  and  varied  massive 
chimneys,  with  urns  of  brown  stone,  placed  on  pedestals  of  brick  at  each 
corner  of  the  building.  This  fabric  was  at  once  substantial,  strikingly 
adapted  for  defence  in  time  of  war,  and  neat  and  well-proportioned  as  regards 
architectural  beauty.  The  walls  thick  and  massive,  were  well  supplied 
vith  windows,  the  hall  door  opened  in  the  centre  of  the  house,  facing  the 
road,  and  the  steps  were  decorated  by  two  marble  Lions  placed  on  either 
side,  each  holding  an  escutcheon  in  its  grasp. 

Here  and  there  a  green  tree  arose  from  the  bosom  of  the  lawn ;  in  the 
•ear  of  the  mansion  were  seen  the  brown-stone  buildings  of  the  barn,  and  to 
the  north  the  grounds  were  varied  by  the  rustic  enclosures  of  a  cattle-pen. 

This  was  the  mansion  of  CHEW'S  HOUSE,  and  that  green  lawn,  spreading 
bright  and  golden  in  the  beams  of  the  declining  sun,  was  the  BATTLE-FIELD 
OF  GERMANTOWN. 

One  word  with  regard  to  the  position  of  the  British  on  the  Eve  of  Battle. 

The  left  wing  of  the  British  army  extended  from  the  centre  of  the  village, 
more  than  a  mile  below  Chew's  house,  from  a  point  near  the  old  market 
house,  westward  across  the  Wissahikon,  and  toward  the  Schuylkill.  The 
German  chasseurs  in  their  heavy  uniform,  the  ponderous  caps,  defended  by 
bear-skin  and  steel,  the  massive  sword,  and  the  cumbrous  ornaments  of  sil 
ver,  were  stationed  in  the  front  and  on  the  flank  of  the  left  wing. 

The  right  wing  swept  away  towards  the  Delaware,  as  far  as  the  Old 
York  Road  ;  each  soldier  well  armed  and  accoutred,  each  dragoon  supplied 
with  his  stout  war-steed,  each  cannon  with  its  file  of  men,  ready  for  action, 
and  every  musket,  with  brilliant  tube  and  glittering  bayonet,  prepared  with 
it?  man,  for  the  keen  chase  of  the  rebel  route,  whenever  the  master  of  the 
Uounds  might  start  the  hunt. 


30  THE  BATTLE  OF  GERMANTOVVN. 

This  wing  was  defended  in  the  front  by  a  battalion  of  light  infantry,  and 
the  Queen's  American  Rangers,  whose  handsome  accoutrements,  uniform 
of  dark  green,  varied  by  ornaments  of  gold,  and  rifles  mounted  with  silver, 
gleamed  gaily  from  amid  the  depths  of  the  greenwood,  presenting  a  brilliant 
contrast  to  the  course  blue  hunting  shirt,  the  plain  rifle,  and  uncouth  woods 
man's  knife  that  characterised  the  American  Rifleman. 

In  a  green  field,  situated  near  the  Germantown  road,  a  mile  above  Chew's 
house,  the  banner  of  the  40th  regiment  floated  above  the  tent  of  Col.  Mus- 
grave,  its  brave  commander,  while  the  canvass  dwellings  of  the  soldiers  were 
scattered  around  the  flag,  intermingled  with  the  tents  of  another  battalion 
of  light  infantry. 

Such  was  the  British  position  at  Germantown — a  picket  at  Allan's  house, 
Mount  Airy,  two  miles  above  Chew's  house — Col.  Musgrave's  command  a 
mile  below  Allen's  house — the  main  body  two  miles  below  Chew's,  some 
where  near  the  old  market  house — and  this  force  was  backed  by  four  regi 
ments  of  British  Grenadiers,  stationed  in  the  barracks  in  the  Northern 
Liberties,  Philadelphia. 

And  this  force,  exceeding  18000  able-bodied  regulars,  the  Patriot  chieftian 
had  resolved  to  attack  with  8000  Continental  troops  and  3000  militia,  infe 
rior  in  arms,  in  clothing,  and  in  everything  but  the  justice  of  their  cause,  to 
the  proud  soldiers  of  the  British  host. 

Night  came  down  upon  Germantown.  The  long  shadows  of  the  old 
houses  were  flung  across  the  village  road,  and  along  the  fields  ;  the  moon 
was  up  in  the  clear  heavens,  the  dark  grey  roofs  were  tinted  with  silver, 
and  glimpses  of  moonlight  were  flung  around  the  massive  barns  of  the  village, 
yet  its  peaceful  denizens  had  not  yet  retired  to  rest,  after  their  good  old  Ger 
man  fashion,  at  early  candle-light. 

There  was  a  strange  fear  upon  the  minds  of  the  villagers.  Each  porch 
contained  its  little  circle  ;  the  hoary  grandsire,  who  had  suffered  the  bright- 
cheeked  grandchild  to  glide  from  his  knee,  while  he  leaned  forward,  with 
animated  gesture,  conversing  with  his  son  in  a  low  whisper — the  blooming 
mother,  the  blue-eyed  maiden,  and  the  ruddy-cheeked,  flaxen-haired  boy,  all 
sharing  the  interest  of  the  scene,  and  having  but  one  topic  of  discourse — the 
terror  of  war. 

Could  we  go  back  to  that  quiet  autumnal  night  on  the  3d  of  October,  in 
the  Year  of  the  "  Three  Sevens,"  and  stroll  along  the  village  street  of  Ger 
mantown,  we  would  find  much  to  interest  the  ear  and  attract  the  eye. 

We  would  leave  Chew's  house  behind  us,  and  stroll  along  the  village 
utreet.  We  would  note  the  old  time  costumes  of  the  villagers,  the  men  clad 
in  coarse  linsey  wolsey,  voluminous  vests  with  wide  lappels,  breeches  of 
buckskin,  stockings  and  buckled  shoes,  while  the  head  was  defended  by  the 
'skimming  dish  hat ;'  we  would  admire  the  picturesque  costume  of  the  dames 
and  damsels  of  Germantown,  here  and  there  a  young  lady  of  «*  quality" 
mincing  her  way  in  all  the  glory  of  high-heeled  shoes,  intricate  head-dress 


THE    CAMP    OF  THE    BRITISHER.  31 

and  tine  suk  gown,  all  hooped  and  frilled  ;  there  a  stately  dame  in  frock  of 
calico,  newly  bought  and  high-priced;  but  most  would  we  admire  the  blush 
ing  damsel  of  the  village,  her  full  round  cheeks  peeping  from  beneath  the 
kerchief  thrown  lightly  around  her  rich  brown  locks,  her  blue  eyes  glancing 
mischievously  hither  and  thither,  her  bust,  full  rounded  and  swelling  with 
youth  and  health,  enclosed  in  the  tight  bodice,  while  the  rustic  petticoat  of 
brown  linsey  wolsey,  short  enough  to  disclose  a  neat  ancle  and  a  little  foot, 
would  possess  more  attractions  for  our  eyes,  than  the  frock  of  calico  or 
gown  of  silk. 

We  would  stroll  along  the  street  of  the  village,  and  listen  to  the  conver 
sation  of  the  villagers.  Every  tongue  speaks  of  war,  the  old  man  whispers 
the  word  as  his  grey  hairs  wave  in  the  moonlight,  the  mother  murmurs  the 
syllable  of  terror  as  the  babe  seeks  the  shelter  of  her  bosom,  the  boy  gaily 
shouts  the  word,  as  he  brandishes  the  rusted  fowling  piece  in  the  air,  and 
the  village  beau,  seated  beside  his  sweetheart,  mutters  that  word  as  the 
thought  of  the  British  ravisher  flashes  over  his  mind. 

Strolling  from  Chew's  House,  we  would  pass  the  BRINGHURSTS,  seated 
on  their  porch,  the  HELLIGS,  the  PETERS,  the  UNRODS  just  opposite  the  old 
GRAVE  YARD,  and  the  LIPPARDS,  and  the  JOHNSONS,  below  the  grave  yard> 
at  the  opposite  corners  of  the  lane  leading  back  to  the  township  line ;  we 
would  stroll  by  the  mansion  of  the  KEYSERS,  near  the  Mennonist  grave  yard  ; 
further  down  we  would  pass  the  KNOORS,  the  HAINES,  the  PASTORIUS',  the 
HERGESIMERS,  the  ENGLES,  the  COOKES,  the  CONRADS,  the  SCH^FFERS,  and 
the  hundred  other  families  of  Germantown,  descendants  of  old  German  stock, 
as  seated  on  the  porch  in  front  of  the  mansion,  each  family  circle  discussed 
the  terrible  topic  of  war,  bloodshed,  battle,  and  death. 

Nor  would  we  forget  the  various  old  time  families,  bearing  the  names  of 
Nice — Moyer — Bowman — Weaver — Bockius — Forrest — Billmeyer  —  Lei- 
bert — Matthias.  These  names  may  not  figure  brilliantly  in  history,  but 
their's  was  the  heraldry  of  an  honest  life. 

And  at  every  step,  we  would  meet  a  British  soldier,  strutting  by  in  his 
coat  of  crimson,  on  every  side  we  would  behold  the  gleam  of  Briiish  arms, 
and  our  ears  would  be  saluted  by  the  roll  of  British  drums,  beating  the  tattoo, 
and  the  signal  cannon,  announcing  the  hour  of  repose. 

And  as  midnight  gathered  over  the  roofs  of  the  town,  as  the  baying  of  the 
watchdog  broke  upon  our  ears,  mingled  with  the  challenge  of  the  sentinel, 
we  would  stroll  over  the  lawn  of  Chew's  House,  note  the  grass  growing 
greenly  and  freshly,  heavy  with  dew,  and  then  gazing  upon  the  heavens,  our 
hearts  would  ask  the  question,  whether  no  omen  of  blood  in  the  skies, 
heralded  the  door  and  the  death  of  the  morrow  ? 

Oh,  there  is  something  of  horror  in  the  anticipation  of  a  certain  death, 
when  we  know  as  surely  as  we  know  our  own  existence,  that  a  coming 
Battle  will  send  scores  of  souls  shrieking  to  their  last  account,  when  the 
green  lawn,  now  silvered  by  the  moonlight,  will  be  soddened  with  blood. 


32  THE    BATTLE    OF    GERMANTOWN. 

when  the  ancient  mansion,  now  rising  in  the  midnight  air,  like  an  emblem 
of  rural  ease,  with  its  chimneys  and  its  roof  sleeping  in  the  moonbeams,  vviR 
be  a  scene  of  terrible  contest  with  sword,  and  ball,  and  bayonet ;  when  the 
roof  will  smoke  with  the  lodged  cannon  ball,  when  the  windows  will  send 
their  volumes  of  flame  across  the  lawn,  when  all  around  will  be  mist  and 
gloom,  grappling  foemen,  heaps  of  dying  mingled  with  the  dead,  charging 
legions,  and  recoiling  squadrons. 

IV.— THE    NIGHT-MARCH. 

AND  as  the  sun  went  down,  on  that  calm  day  of  autumn,  shooting  his 
level  beams  thro'  the  wilds  of  the  rivulet  of  the  Skippack,  there  gathered 
within  the  woods,  and  along  the  shores  of  that  stream,  a  gallant  and  despe 
rate  army,  with  every  steed  ready  for  the  march,  with  the  columns  mar 
shalled  for  the  journey  of  death,  every  man  with  his  knapsack  on  his  shoul 
der,  and  musket  in  his  grasp,  while  the  broad  banner  of  the  Continental 
Host  drooped  heavily  over  head,  its  folds  rent  aud  torn  by  the  fight  of 
Brandywine,  waving  solemnly  in  the  twilight.* 

The  tents  were  struck,  the  camp  fires  where  had  been  prepared  the  hasty 
supper  of  the  soldier,  were  still  burning  ;  the  neighing  of  steeds,  and  the  sup 
pressed  rattle  of  arms,  rang  thro'  the  grove  startling  the  night-bird  of  the 
Skippack,  when  the  uncertain  light  of  a  decaying  flame,  glowing  around  the 
stump  of  a  giant  oak,  revealed  a  scene  of  strange  interest. 

The  flame-light  fell  upon  the  features  of  a  gallant  band  of  heroes,  circling 
round  the  fire,  each  with  his  war  cloak,  drooping  over  his  shoulder,  half 
concealing  the  uniform  of  blue  and  bufF;  each  with  sword  by  his  side,  cha- 
peau  in  hand,  ready  to  spring  upon  his  war-steed  neighing  in  the  grove  hard 
by,  at  a  moments  warning,  while  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  face  of  the 
chieftain  who  stood  in  their  midst. 

By  the  soul  of  Mad  Anthony  it  was  a  sight  that  would  have  stirred  a 
man's  blood  to  look  upon — that  sight  of  the  gallant  chieftains  of  a  gallant 
band,  clustering  round  the  camp  fire,  in  the  last  and  most  solemn  council  of 
war,  ere  they  spurred  their  steeds  forward  in  the  march  of  death. 

The  man  with  the  form  of  majesty,  and  that  calm,  impenetrable  face, 
lighted  by  the  hidden  fire  of  soul,  bursting  forth  ever  and  again  in  the  glance 
of  his  eye!  Had  you  listened  to  the  murmurs  of  the  dying  on  the  field  of 
Brandywine  you  would  have  heard  the  name,  that  ha  long  since  become  a 
sound  of  prayer  and  blessing  on  the  tongues  of  nations — the  name  of  WASH 
INGTON.  And  by  his  side  was  GREENE*  his  fine  countenance  wearing  a 
shade  of  serious  thought;  and  there  listlessly  thrusting  his  glittering  sword 
in  the  embers  of  the  decaying  fire,  with  his  fierce  eyes  fixed  upon  the  earth, 
while  his  mustachioed  lip  gave  a  stern  expression  to  his  face,  was  the  man 


*  The  Skippack,  the  reader  will  remember,  was  some  16  miles  from  Germantown. 


THE    NIGHT-MARCH.  33 

of  Poland  and  the  Patriot  of  Brandy  wine,  PULASKI,  whom  it  were  tautology 
to  call  the  brave  ;  there  was  the  towering  form  of  SULLIVAN,  there  was 
COXWAY,  with  his  fine  face  and  expressive  features,  there  was  ARMSTRONG 
and  NASH  and  MAXWELL  and  STIRLING  and  STEPHENS,  all  brave  men  and 
true,  side  by  side  with  the  gallant  SMALL  WOOD  of  Maryland,  and  the  stalwart 
FORMAN  of  Jersey. 

And  there  with  his  muscular  chest,  clad  in  the  close  buttoned  blue  coat, 
with  his  fatigue  cloak  thrown  over  his  left  shoulder,  with  his  hand  restin^ 
on  the  hilt  of  his  sword,  was  the  hero  of  Chadd's  Ford,  the  Commander  of 
the  Massacred  of  Paoli,  the  future  avenger  of  Stony  Point,  ANTHONY  WAYNE. 
whom  the  soldiers  loved  in  their  delight  to  name  MAD  ANTHONY  ;  shouting 
that  name  in  the  hour  of  the  charge  and  in  the  moment  of  death  like  a  watch 
word  of  terror  to  the  British  Army. 

Clustered  around  their  Chief,  were  the  aids-de-camp  of  Washington,  JOHN 
MARSHALL,  afterwards  Chief  Justice  of  the  States;  ALEXANDER  HAMILTON, 
gifted,  gallant,  and  brave,  Washington's  counsellor  in  the  hour  of  peril,  his 
bosom  friend  and  confidant,  all  standing  in  the  same  circle  with  PICKERING 
and  LEE,  the  Captain  of  the  Partizan  Band,  with  his  slight  form  and  swarthy 
face,  who  was  on  that  eventful  night  detailed  for  duty  near  the  Commander- 
in-chief. 

And  as  they  stood  there  clustered  round  the  person  of  Washington,  in  a 
mild  yet  decided  voice,  the  chieftain  spoke  to  them  of  the  plan  of  the  con 
templated  surprise  and  battle. 

It  was  his  object  to  take  the  British  by  surprise.  He  intended  for  the 
accomplishment  of  this  object,  to  attack  them  at  once  on  the  front  of  the 
centre  ;  and  on  the  front,  flank  and  rear  of  each  wing.  This  plan  of  ope 
ration  would  force  the  American  commander  to  extend  the  continental  army 
over  a  surface  of  from  five  to  seven  miles. 

In  order  to  make  this  plan  of  attack  effective,  it  would  be  necessary  for 
the  American  army  to  seperate  near  Skippack,  and  advance  to  Germantown 
in  four  divisions,  marching  along  as  many  roads. 

General  Armstrong  with  the  Pennsylvania  militia,  3000  strong,  was  to 
march  down  the  Manatawny  road  (now  Ridge  road,)  and  traversing  the 
shores  of  the  Schuylkill,  until  the  beautiful  Wissahikon  poured  into  its 
bosom,  he  was  to  turn  the  left  flank  of  the  enemy  at  Vandurings  (now  Rob 
inson's  Mill,)  and  then  advance  eastward,  along  the  bye  roads,  until  two 
miles  distance  between  this  mill  and  the  Germantown  market-house  were 
accomplished. 

Meanwhile  the  Militia  of  Maryland  and  New  Jersey,  were  to  take  up 
their  line  of  march  some  seven  or  eight  miles  to  the  eastward  of  Armstrong's 
position,  and  over  three  miles  distance  from  Germantown.  They  were  to 
march  down  the  Old  York  Road,  turn  the  right  flank  of  the  enemy,  and 
attack  it  in  the  rear,  also  entering  the  town  at  the  market-house,  which  wa.« 
the  central  point  of  operation  for  all  the  divisions. 


84  THE   BATTLE   OF    GERMANTOWN. 

Between  Germantown  and  Old  York  Road,  at  the  distance  of  near  iwr 
miles  from  the  village,  extends  a  road,  called  Limekiln  road.  The  division! 
cf  Greene  and  Stephens  flanked  by  McDougal's  Brigade  were  to  take  a 
circuit  by  this  road,  and  attack  the  front  of  the  enemy's  right  wing.  They 
also  were  to  enter  the  town  by  the  market-house. 

The  main  body,  with  which  was  Washington,  Wayne,  and  Sullivan,  were 
to  advance  toward  Germantown  by  the  Great  Northern  Road,  entering  the 
town  by  way  of  Chesnut  Hill,  some  four  miles  distant  from  the  Market-house. 

A  column  of  this  body  was  led  on  by  Sullivan,  another  by  Wayne,  and 
Convay's  Brigade  flanked  the  entire  division. 

While  these  four  divisions  advanced,  the  division  of  Lord  Stirling,  com 
bined  with  the  brigades  of  Maxwell  and  Nash  were  to  form  a  corps  de 
reserve. 

The  reader,  and  the  student  of  American  History,  has  now  the  plan  of 
battle  spread  out  before  him.  In  order  to  take  in  the  full  particulars  of  this 
magnificent  plan  of  battle,  it  may  be  necessary  to  remember  the  exact  nature 
of  the  ground  around  Germantown. 

In  some  places  plain  and  level,  in  others  broken  by  ravines,  rendered  in 
tricate  by  woods,  tangled  by  thickets,  or  traversed  by  streams,  it  was  in  its 
most  accessible  points,  and  most  favorable  aspects,  broken  by  enclosures, 
difficult  fences,  massive  stone  walls,  or  other  boundary  marks  of  land,  ren 
dering  the  operation  of  calvary  at  all  times  hazardous,  and  often  impassible. 

In  the  vicinage  of  the  town,  for  near  a  mile  on  either  side,  the  land  spread 
greenly  away,  in  level  fields,  still  broken  by  enclosures,  and  then  came  thick 
woods,  steep  hills  and  dark  ravines. 

The  base  line  of  operations  was  the  country  around  Skippack  Creek, 
from  which  point,  Washington,  like  a  mighty  giant,  spread  forth  the  four 
arms  of  his  force,  clutching  the  enemy  in  front,  on  his  wings  and  on  the 
rear,  all  at  the  same  moment. 

It  was  a  magnificent  plan  of  battle,  and  success  already  seemed  to  hover 
round  the  American  banner,  followed  by  a  defeat  of  the  British,  as  terrible 
as  that  of  Yorktown,  when  the  red-coat  heroes  of  Germantown  struck  their 
own  Lion  from  his  rock. 

As  Washington  went  over  the  details  of  battle,  each  brave  officer  and 
scarred  chieftain  leaned  forward,  taking  in  every  word,  with  absorbing  in 
terest,  and  then  receiving  the  orders  of  his  commander,  with  the  utmost 
attention  and  consideration. 

All  was  now  planned,  everything  was  ready  for  the  march,  each  General 
mounted  on  his  war-steed,  rode  to  the  head  of  his  division,  and  with  a  low 
solemn  peal  of  music,  the  night-march  of  Germantown  commenced. 

And  through  the  solemn  hours  of  that  night,  along  the  whole  valley,  on 
every  side,  was  heard  the  half  suppressed  sound  of  marching  legions,  rain, 
fled  with  the  low  muttered  word  of  command,  the  clank  of  arms  and  the 
neighing  of  war-steeds — all  dim  and  indistinct,  yet  terrible  to  heai. — The 


THE    DAYBREAK    WATCH.  35 

farmer  sleeping  on  his  humble  couch,  rushed  to  the  window  of  his  rustic 
mansion  at  the  sound,  and  while  his  wife  stood  beside  him,  all  tremor  and 
affright,  and  his  little  ones  clung  to  his  knees,  he  saw  with  a  mingled  look 
of  surprise  and  fear,  the  forms  of  an  armed  band,  some  on  horse  and  some 
on  foot,  sweeping  through  his  green  fields,  as  the  dim  moonbeams  gleaming 
through  the  gathering  mist  and  gloom,  shone  over  glittering  arms,  and  dusky 
banners,  all  gliding  past,  like  phantoms  of  the  Spectre  Land. 


THE  BATTLE  MORN. 

'Ghastly  and  white,  iShrouding  the  moon  with  a  fiery  glare  • 

Through  the  gloom  of  the  night,  iSolemn  voices  now  startle  the  air, 

From  plain  and  from  heath,  (To  theif  sounds  of  omen  you  are  fain  to 

Like  a  shroud  of  death,  list: 

The  mist  all  slowly  and  sullenly  sweeps— I  To    listen    and    tremble,    and    hold    your 


A  shroud  of  death  for  the  myriad  brave, 
Who  to-morrow  shall  find  the  tombless 

grave- 
In  mid  heaven  now  a  bright  spirit  weeps  ; 
While  sullenly,  slowly  rises  that  pall, 
Crimson  tears  for  the  brave   who  shall 

fall, 
Crimson  tears  for  the  dead  without  tomb, 


Crimson   tears    for   the    death    and    the!  red, 


breath  ; 
While  the  air  is  thronging  with  shapes  of 

death. 
"  On,  on  over  valley  and  plain  the  legions 

tramp, 
Scenting  the  foemen  who  sleep  in  their 

camp  ; 
Now  bare  the  sword  from  its  sheath  blood- 


doom — 

Crimson  tears  for  an  angel's  sorrow, 
For  the  havoc,  the  bloodshed,  the  car 
nage  and  gloom, 

That  shall  startle  the  field  on  the  mor 
row  ; — 
And  up   to  the  heavens  now  whitens  the 


mist, 


Now  dig  the  pits  for  the  unwept  dead  : 
Now  let  the  cannon  give  light  to  the  hour 
And  carnage  stalk   forth  in  his   crimson 

power, 
Lo  !  on  the  plain  lay  myriads  gasping  for 

breath — 
While  the  mist  it  is  rising — THE  SHROUD 

OF  DEATH  !" 


1.— THE    DAYBREAK    WATCH. 


ALONG  the  porch  of  an  ancient  mansion,  surmounting  the  height  of  Mount 
Airy,  strode  the  sentinel  of  the  British  picket,  his  tall  form  looming  like  the 
figure  of  a  giant  in  the  gathering  mist,  while  the  musquet  on  his  shoulder 
was  grasped  by  a  hand  red  with  American  blood. 

He  strode  slowly  along  the  porch,  keeping  his  lonely  watch  ;  now  turn 
ing  to  gaze  at  the  dark  shadow  of  the  mansion  towering  above  him,  now 
fixing  his  eye  along  the  Germantown  road,  as  it  wound  down  the  hill,  on  its 
northward  course ;  and  again  he  gazed  upon  the  landscape  around  him, 
wrapt  in  a  gathering  mist,  which  chilled  his  blood,  and  rendered  all  objects 
Lround  him  dim  and  indistinct. 

All  around  was  vague  and  shadowy.     The  mist,  with  its  white  wreathe 


36  THE   BATTLE   OF   GERMANTOWN. 

and  snowy  columns,  came  sweeping  up  on  every  side,  from  the  bosom  of 
the  Wissahikon,  from  the  depths  of  a  thousand  brooklets,  over  hill  and  ovei 
valley,  circled  that  d«nse  and  gathering  exhalation  ;  covering  the  woods  with 
its  ghastly  pall,  rolling  over  the  plains,  and  winding  upward  around  the 
height  of  Mount  Airy,  enveloping  the  cottages  opposite  the  sentinel,  in  its 
folds  of  gloom,  and  confining  the  view  to  a  space  of  twenty  paces  from  the 
oorch,  where  he  kept  his  solitary  watch — to  him,  a  watch  of  death. 

It  is  now  daybreak,  and  a  strange  sound  meets  that  soldier's  ear.  It  is 
now  daybreak,  and  his  comrades  sleep  within  the  walls  of  Allen's  house,  ana 
a  strange,  low,  murmuring  noise,  heard  from  a  great  distance,  causes  him  to 
incline  his  ear  with  attention,  and  to  listen  with  hushed  breath  and  parted  lips. 

He  listens.  The  night  wore  on.  The  blood-red  moon  was  there  in  the 
sky,  looking  out  from  the  mist,  like  a  funeral  torch  shining  through  a  shroud. 

The  Sentinel  bent  his  head  down  upon  the  porch,  and  with  that  musquet, 
red  with  the  carnage  of  Brandy  wine,  in  his  hand,  he  listens.  It  is  a  distant 
sound — very  distant;  like  the  rush  of  waters,  or  the  moaning  of  the  young 
August  storm,  bursting  into  life  amid  the  ravines  of  the  far-oft*  mountains. 
It  swells  on  the  ear — it  spreads  to  the  east  and  to  the  west:  it  strikes  the 
sentinel's  heart  with  a  strange  fear,  and  he  shoulders  his  musquet  with  a 
firmer  grasp  ;  and  now  a  merry  smile  wreathes  his  lips. 

That  sound — it  is  the  rush  of  waters :  the  Wissahikon  has  flooded  its 
banks,  and  is  pouring  its  torrents  over  the  meadows,  while  it  rolls  onward 
towards  the  Schuylkill.  The  sentinel  smiles  at  his  discovery,  and  resumes 
his  measured  stride.  He  is  right — and  yet  not  altogether  right.  Ajstream 
has  burst  its  banks,  but  not  the  Wissahikon.  A  stream  of  vengeance — dark, 
wild,  and  terrible,  vexed  by  passion,  aroused  by  revenge,  boiling  and  seeth 
ing  from  its  unfathomable  deeps — is  flowing  from  the  north,  and  on  its  bosom 
are  borne  men  with  strong  arms  and  stout  hearts,  swelling  the  turbulence  of 
the  waters  ;  while  the  gleam  of  sword  and  bayonet  flashes  over  the  dark 
waves. 

The  day  is  breaking — sadly  and  slowly  breaking,  along  the  veil  of  mist^ 
that  whitens  over  the  face  of  nature  like  a  SHROUD  OF  DEATH  FOR  MILLIONS. 
The  sentinel  leans  idly  upon  the  bannisters  of  the  porch,  relaxes  the  grasp 
of  his  musquet,  inclines  his  head  to  one  side,  and  no  longer  looks  upon  the 
face  of  nature  covered  by  mist.  He  sleeps.  The  sound  not  long  ago  far 
off,  is  now  near  and  mighty  in  its  volume,  the  tramp  of  steeds  startles  the 
silence  of  the  road,  suppressed  tones  are  heard,  and  there  is  a  noise  like  the 
moving  of  legions. 

II.— THE  FIRST  CORSE  OF  GWIMANTOWN. 

And  yet  he  sleeps — he  dreams  !  Shall  we  guess  his  dream  ?  That  home 
nidden  away  yonder  in  the  shadows  of  an  English  dell — he  is  approaching 
its  threshhold 


THE    FIRST    CORSE    OF   GERMANTOWN.  37 

Yes,  down  the  old  path  by  the  mill — he  sees  his  native  cottage — his  aged 
father  stands  in  the  door — his  sister,  whom  he  left  a  young  girl,  now  grown 
into  a  blooming  woman,  beckons  him  on.  He  reaches  her  side — presses 
her  lips,  and  in  that  kiss  hushes  her  welcome — "  Brother,  have  you  come 
at  last  !" 

But,  ah  !     That  horrid  sound  crashing  through  his  dream  ! 

He  wakes, — wakes  there  on  the  porch  of  the  old  mansion — he  sees  that 
rifle-blaze  flashing  through  the  mist — he  feels  the  death-shot,  and  then  falls 
dead  to  wake  in  Eternity. 

That  rifle-blaze,  flashing  through  the  mist,  is  the  first  shot  of  the  Battle-day 
of  Germantown. 

And  that  dead  man,  flung  along  the  porch  in  all  the  ghastliness  of  sudden 
death — cold  and  stiff  there,  while  his  Sister  awakes  from  her  sinless  sleep 
to  pray  for  him,  three  thousand  miles  away — is  the  first  dead  man  of  that 
day  of  horror  ! 

And  could  we  wander  yonder,  up  through  the  mists  of  this  fearful  morning 
even  to  the  Throne  of  Heaven,  we  might  behold  the  Prayer  of  the  Sister, 
the  Soul  of  the  Brother,  meet  face  to  face  before  Almighty  God. 

And  now  listen  to  that  sound,  thundering  yonder  to  the  North,  and  now 
stand  here  on  the  porch  of  Allen's  house,  and  see  the  Legions  come  ! 

They  break  from  the  folds  of  the  mist,  the  Men  of  Brandywine — foot- 
soldiers  and  troopers  come  thundering  up  the  hill. 

The  blood-red  moon,  shining  from  yonder  sky,  like  a  funeral  torch  through 
a  shroud,  now  glares  upon  the  advancing  legions — over  the  musquets  glit 
tering  in  long  lines,  over  the  war-horses,  over  the  drawn  swords,  over  the 
flags  rent  with  bullet  and  bayonet,  over  the  broad  Banner  of  Stars. 

Allen's  house  is  surrounded.  The  soldiers  of  the  picket  guard  rush  wildly 
from  their  beds,  from  the  scene  of  their  late  carousal  by  the  fire,  they  ruth 
and  seize  their  arms — but  in  vain  !  A  blaze  streams  in  every  windowt 
soldier  after  soldier  falls  heavily  to  the  floor,  the  picket  guard  are  with  the 
Dead  Sentinel.  Allen's  house  is  secured,  and  the  hunt  is  up  ! 

God  of  Battles,  what  a  scene  !  The  whole  road,  farther  than  the  eye 
could  see,  farther  than  the  ear  could  hear,  crowded  by  armed  men,  hurrying 
over  Chesnut  Hill,  hurrying  along  the  valley  between  Chesnut  Hill  and 
Mount  Airy,  sweeping  up  the  hill  of  Allen's  house,  rushing  onward  in  one 
dense  column,  with  the  tall  form  of  Sullivan  at  their  head,  while  the  war 
shout  of  Anthony  Wayne  is  borne  along  by  the  morning  breeze.  There, 
riding  from  rank  to  rank,  speeding  from  battalion  to  battalion,  from  column 
to  column,  a  form  of  majesty  sweeps  by,  mounted  on  a  steed  of  iron  grev, 
waving  encouragement  to  the  men,  while  every  lip  repeats  the  whisper,  and 
every  heart  beats  at  the  «ound,  echoed  like  a  word  of  magic  along  the  iines — 
"  There  he  rides — how  grandly  his  form  towers  in  the  mist;  it's  Washing- 
ton — it's  Washington  !"  and  the  whole  arrny  take  up  the  sound — "  It  is 
Washington  !" 


38  THE   BATTLE   OF    GERMANTOWN. 

Allen's  house  was  passed,  and  now  the  path  of  the  central  body  of  the 
army  lay  along  the  descent  of  the  road  from  Mount  Airy,  for  the  space  of  a 
mile,  until  the  quarters  of  Colonel  Musgrave's  regiment  were  reached. 

The  descent  was  like  the  path  of  a  hurricane.  The  light  of  the  break 
ing  day,  streaming  dimly  through  mist  and  gloom,  fell  over  the  forms  of  the 
patriot  band  as  they  swept  down  the  hill,  every  man  with  his  musquet  ready 
for  the  charge,  every  trooper  with  his  sword  drawn,  every  eye  fixed  upon 
the  shroud  of  mist  in  front  of  their  path,  in  the  vain  effort  to  gaze  upon  the 
position  of  the  advance  post  of  the  enemy  a  mile  below,  every  heart  throb 
bing  wildly  with  the  excitement  of  the  coming  contest,  and  all  prepared  for 
the  keen  encounter, — the  fight,  hand  to  hand,  foot  to  foot,  the  charge  of 
death,  and  the  sweeping  hail  of  the  iron  cannon  ball  and  the  leaden  bullet. 
\  How  it  would  have  made  your  heart  throb,  and  beat  and  throb  again,  to 
have  stood  on  that  hill  of  Mount  Airy,  and  looked  upon  the  legions  as  they 
rushed  by. 

Sullivan's  men  have  passed,  they  are  down  the  hill,  and  you  see  them 
below, — rank  after  rank  disappearing  in  the  pall  of  the  enveloping  mist. 

Here  they  come — a  band  brave  and  true,  a  band  with  scarred  faces  and 
sunburnt  visages,  with  rusted  musquets  and  tattered  apparel,  yet  with  true 
hearts  and  stout  hands.  These  are  the  men  of  Paoli ! 

And  there,  riding  in  their  midst,  as  though  his  steed  and  himself  were  but 
one  animal — so  well  he  backs  that  steed,  so  like  is  the  battle-fever  of 
horse,  with  the  waving  mane  and  glaring  eye,  to  the  wild  rage  that  stamps 
the  warrior's  face — there  in  the  midst  of  the  Men  of  Paoli,  rides  their 
leader — Mad  Anthony  Wayne  ! 

And  then  his  voice — how  it  rings  out  upon  the  morning  air,  rising  above 
the  clatter  of  arms  and  the  tramp  of  steeds,  rising  in  a  mighty  shout — "  On, 
boys,  on !  In  a  moment  we'll  have  them.  On,  comrades,  on — and  REMEM 
BER  PAOLI  !" 

And  then  comes  the  band  with  the  gallant  Frenchman  at  their  head  ;  the 
brave  Conway,  brave  though  unfortunate,  also  rushing  wildly  on,  in  the  train 
of  the  hunt.  Your  eye  sickens  as  you  gaze  over  file  after  file  of  brave  men, 
with  mean  apparel  and  meaner  arms,  some  half  clad,  others  well  nigh  bare 
foot,  yet  treading  gaily  over  the  flinty  ground ;  some  with  fragments  of  a 
coat  on  their  backs,  others  without  covering  for  their  heads,  all  marked  by 
rounds,  all  thinned  by  hunger  and  disease,  yet  every  man  of  them  is  firm, 
every  hand  is  true,  as  it  clutches  the  musquet  with  an  eager  grasp. 

Ha  !  That  gallant  band  who  come  trooping  on,  spurring  their  stout  steeds, 
with  wide  haunches  and  chests  of  iron,  hastily  forward,  that  band  with  every 
face  seemed  by  scars,  and  darkened  by  the  thick  mustachio,  every  eye 
gleaming  beneath  a  knit  brow,  every  swarthy  hand  raising  the  iron  sword  on 
high.  They  wear  the  look  of  foreigners,  the  manner  of  men  trained  to  fight 
in  the  exterminating  wars  of  Europe. 

And  their  leader  is   tall  and  well-proportioned,  with   a  dark-hued  face, 


THE  FIRST  CORSE  OF  GERMANTOWN.  39 

marked  by  a  compressed  lip,  rendered  fierce  by  the  overhanging  mustachio 
his  brow  is  shaded  by  the  trooper's  plume,  and  his  hand  grasps  the  trooper's 
sword.     He  speaks  to  his  men  in  a  foreign  tongue,  he  reminds  them  of  the 
well-fought  field  on  the  plain  of  Poland,  he  whispers  a  quick,  terrible  me 
mento  of  Brandy  wine  and  Paoli,  and  the  clear  word  rings  from  his  lips: 

"  For  war  is, — brudern, — forwards  !" 

It  is  the  band  of  Pulaski  sweeping  past,  eager  for  the  hunt  of  death,  and 
as  they  spur  their  steeds  forward,  a  terrible  confusion  arises  far  ahead. 

There  is  flashing  of  strange  fires  through  the  folds  of  mist,  lifting  the 
snow-white  pall  for  a  moment — there  is  rolling  of  musquetry,  rattling  like 
the  thunderbolt  ere  it  strikes — there  is  the  tramp  of  hurrying  legions,  the 
far-off  shout  of  the  charging  continentals,  and  the  yells  and  shouts  of  the 
surprised  foemen. 

Sullivan  is  upon  the  camp  of  the  enemy,  upon  them  with  the  terror  of 
ball  and  bayonet.  They  rush  from  their  camp,  they  form  hastily  across  the 
road,  in  front  of  their  baggage,  each  red-coated  trooper  seeks  his  steed,  each 
footman  grasps  his  musquet,  and  the  loud  voice  of  Musgrave,  echoing  wildly 
along  the  line  of  crimson  attire  and  flashing  bayonets,  is  heard  above  all  other 
soun-ds, — "  Form — iads,  form — fall  in  there — to  your  arms,  lads,  to  your 
arms. — Form,  comrades,  form  !" 

In  vain  his  shouting,  in  vain  the  haste  of  his  men  rushing  from  their  beds, 
into  the  very  path  of  the  advancing  continentals  !  The  men  of  Sullivan  are 
upon  them  !  They  sweep  on  with  one  bold  front — the  forms  of  the  troop 
ers,  mounted  on  their  war-steeds,  looming  through  the  mist,  as  with  sword 
upraised,  and  battle-shout  pealing  to  the  skies,  they  lead  on  the  charge  of 
death  ! 

A  moment  of  terror,  a  moment  made  an  age  by  suspense  !  The  troopers 
meet,  mid-way  in  their  charge,  horse  to  horse,  sword  mingled  with  sword, 
eye  glaring  in  eye,  they  meet.  The  ground  quivers  with  an  earthquake 
shock.  JSteeds  recoil  on  their  haunches,  the  British  strew  the  road-side, 
flooding  the  dust  with  their  blood,  and  the  music  of  battle,  the  fierce  music 
of  dying  groans  and  cries  of  death,  rises  up  with  the  fog,  startling  the  very 
heavens  with  its  discord  ! 

The  hunt  is  up  ! 

"  On — boys — on" — rings  the  voice  of  Mad  Anthony — "  on — comrades — 
on — and  Remember  Paoli !" 

"  Charge  /"  sounds  the  voice  of  Washington,  shrieking  along  the  line, 
like  the  voice  of  a  mighty  spirit — "  upon  them — over  them  !"  Conway 
re-echoes  the  sound,  Sullivan  has  already  made  the  air  ring  with  his  shout 
and  now  Pulaski  takes  up  the  cry — "  Forwarts — brudern — ForwartsT 

The  hunt  is  up  ! 

The  British  face  the  bayonets  of  the  advancing  Americans,  but  in  vain 
Each  bold  backwoodsman  sends  his  volley  of  death  along  the  British  line* 
and  then  clubbing  his  musquet,  rushes  wildly  forward,  beating  the  red-coat 


40  THE    BATTLE    OF   GERMANTOWN. 

to  the  sod  with  a  blow  that  cannot  be  stayed.  The  British  troopers  niib 
forward  in  the  charge,  but  ere  half  the  distance  between  them  and  the  Amer 
can  host  is  measured,  Mad  Anthony  comes  thundering  on,  with  his  Legion 
of  Iron,  and  as  his  war-shout  swells  on  the  air,  the  red-coats  are  driven  back 
by  the  hurricane  force  of  his  charge,  the  ground  is  strewn  with  the  dying, 
and  the  red  hoofs  of  the  horse  trample  madly  over  the  faces  of  the  dead. 

Wayne  charges,  Pulaski  charges,  Conway  brings  up  his  men,  and  Wash 
ington  is  there,  in  front  of  the  battle,  his  sword  gleaming  like  a  meteor 
through  the  gloom. 

The  fire  of  the  infantry,  spreading  a  sheeted  flame  thro*  the  folds  of  the 
mist,  lights  up  the  scene.  The  never-ceasing  clang  of  sword  against  sword, 
the  low  muttered  shriek  of  the  fallen,  vainly  trying  to  stop  the  flow  of 
blood,  the  wild  yell  of  the  soldier,  gazing  madly'round  as  he  receives  his 
death  wound,  the  shout  of  the  charge,  and  the  involuntary  cry  of  'quarter,' 
all  furnish  a  music  most  dread  and  horrible,  as  tho'  an  infernal  band  were 
urging  on  the  work  of  slaughter,  with  their  notes  of  fiendish  mockery. 

That  flash  of  musquetry  !  What  a  light  it  gives  the  scene  !  Above, 
clouds  of  white  mist  and  lurid  smoke ;  around,  all  hurry,  and  tramp,  and 
motion;  faces  darkened  by  all  the  passions  of  a  demon,  glaring  madly  in  the 
light,  blood  red  hands  upraised,  foemen  grappling  in  contest,  swords  rising 
and  falling,  circling  and  glittering,  the  forms  of  the  wounded,  with  their  faces 
buried  in  the  earth,  the  ghastly  dead,  all  heaped  up  in  positions  of  ludicrous 
mockery  of  death,  along  the  roadside  ! 

That  flash  of  musquetry  ! 

The  form  of  Washington  is  in  the  centre  of  the  fight,  the  battle-glare 
lighting  up  his  face  of  majesty ;  the  stalwart  form  of  Wayne  is  seen  riding 
hither  and  thither,  waving  a  dripping  sword  in  his  good  right  hand ;  the 
figure  of  Pulaski,  dark  as  the  form  of  an  earth-riven  spirit  of  some  German 
story,  breaks  on  your  eye,  as  enveloped  in  mist,  he  seems  rushing  every 
where  at  the  same  moment,  fighting  in  all  points  of  the  contest,  hurrying  his 
men  onward,  and  driving  the  affrighted  British  before  him  with  the  terror 
of  his  charge. 

And  Col.  Musgrave — where  is  he  ? 

He  shouts  the  charge  to  his  men,  he  hurries  hither  and  thither,  he  shouts 
till  he  is  hoarse,  he  fights  till  his  person  is  red  with  the  blood  of  his  own 
men,  slain  before  his  very  eyes,  but  all  in  vain ! 

He  shouts  the  word  of  retreat  along  his  line — "Away,  my  men,  away  to 
Chew's  House — away  !" 

The  retreat  commences,  and  then  indeed,  the  hunt  of  death  is  up  in  good 
earnest. 

The  British  wheel  down  the  Germantown  road,  they  turn  their  backs  to 
their  ibes,  they  flee  wildly  toward  Germantown,  leaving  their  dead  and 
dying  in  their  wake,  man  and  horse,  they  flee,  some  scattering  their  arms  by 
'he  roadside,  others  weakened  by  loss  of  blood,  feebly  endeavoring  to  join 


THE    FIRST    CORStt   UP    (J/.uMANTOWN.  41 

the  retreat,  and  then  falling  dead  in  the  path  of  the  pursuers,  who  with  one 
bold  front,  with  one  firm  step  rush  after  the  British  in  their  flight,  ride  down 
the  fleeing  ranks,  an  I  scatter  death  along  the  hurrying  columns 

The  fever  of  bloodshed  grows  hotter,  the  chase  grows  fearful  in  interest, 
the  hounds  who  so  often  have  worried  down  the  starved  Americans,  are 
now  hunted  in  their  turn. 

And  in  the  very  van  of  pursuit,  his  tall  form  seen  by  every  soldier,  rode 
George  Washington,  his  mind  strained  to  a  pitch  of  agony,  as  the  crisis  of 
the  contest  approached,  and  by  his  side  rode  Mad  Anthony  Wayne,  now 
Mad  Anthony  indeed,  for  his  whole  appearance  was  changed,  his  eye 
seemed  turned  to  a  thing  of  living  flame,  his  face  was  begrimed  with 
powder,  his  sword  was  red  with  blood,  and  his  battle-shout  rung  tiercer  on 
the  air —  •  * 

"Over  them  boys — upon  them — over  tkem,  and  REMEMBER  PAOLI  !" 

"  Now  Wayne,  now" — shouted  Washington — "one  charge  more  and  we 
have  them  !" 

"  Forwarts — briidern — forwarts  !"  shouted  Pulaski,  as  his  iron  band  came 
thundering  on — "  Forwarts — for  Washington — Forwarts  !" 

The  British  leader  wheeled  his  steed  for  a  moment,  and  gazed  upon  his 
pursuers.  All  around  was  bloodshed,  gloom,  and  death  ;  mist  and  smoke 
above  ;  flame  around,  and  mangled  corses  below. — With  one  hoarse  shout, 
he  again  bade  his  men  make  for  Chew's  House,  and  again  the  dying  scat' 
tered  along  the  path  looked  up,  and  beheld  the  British  sweeping  madly 
down  the  road. 

The  vanguard  of  the  pursuers  had  gained  the  upper  end  of  Chew's  wall, 
when  the  remnant  of  the  British  force  disappeared  in  the  fog  ;  file  after  file 
of  the  crimson-coated  British  were  lost  to  sight  in  the  mist,  and  in  the  very 
heat  and  flush  of  the  chase,  the  American  army  was  brought  to  a  halt  in 
front  of  Chew's  wall,  each  soldier  falling  L^ck  on  his  comrade  with  a  sud 
den  movement,  while  the  officers  gazed  on  each  other's  faces  in  vain  inquiry 
for  the  cause  of  this  unexpected  delay. 

The  fog  gathered  in  dense  folds  over  the  heads  of  the  soldiers,  thicker 
and  more  dense  it  gathered  every  instant;  the  enemy  was  lost  to  sight  in 
the  direction  of  Chew's  lawn,  and  a  fearful  pause  of  silence,  from  the  din 
and  tumult  of  bloodshed,  ensued  for  a  single  moment. 

Bending  from  his  steed  in  front  of  the  gate  that  led  into  Chew's  lawn, 
Washington  gazed  round  upon  the  faces  of  his  staff,  who  circled  him  on 
every  side,  with  every  horse  recoiling  on  his  haunches  from  the  sudden  ef 
fect  of  the  halt. 

Washington  was  about  to  speak  as  he  leaned  from  his  steed,  with  his 

sword  half  lowered  in  the  misty  air,  he  was  about  to  speak,  and  ask  the 

meaning  of  this  sudden  disappearance  of  the  British,  when  a  lurid  flash 

lifted  up  the  fog  from  the  lawn,  and  the  thunder  of  nmsquetry  boomed  along 

3 


42  THE   BATTLE   OF    GERM ANTOWN. 

the  air,  echoing  among  the  nooks  and  corners  of  the  ancient  houses  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street. 

Another  moment,  and  a  soldier  with  face  all  crimsoned  with  blood  and 
darkened  by  battle  smoke,  rushed  thro'  the  group  clustering  around  the  horse 
of  Washington,  and  in  a  hurried  voice  announced  that  the  remnant  of  the 
British  Regiment  had  thrown  themselves  into  the  substantial  stone  mansion 
on  the  left,  and  seemed  determined  to  make  good,  a  desperate  defence. 

"  What  say  you,  gentlemen" — cried  Washington — "  shall  we  press  on 
ward  into  the  town,  and  attack  the  main  body  of  the  enemy  at  once,  or  shall 
we  first  drive  the  enemy  from  their  strong  hold,  at  this  mansion  on  our  left  ?" 

The  answer  of  Wayne  was  short  and  to  the  point.  »» Onward  !" — he 
shouted,  and  his  sword  rose  in  the  air,  all  dripping  with  blood — »*  Onward 
'into  the  town — our  soldiers  are  warmed  with  the  chase — onward,  and  with 
another  blow,  we  have  them  !" 

And  the  gallant  Hamilton,  the  brave  Pickering,  the  gifted  Marshall,  echoed 
the  cry — "  Onward — "  while  the  hoarse  shout  of  Pulaski  rang  out  in  the 
air — "  Forwarts — brudern — Forwarts  !" 

"  It  is  against  every  rule  of  military  science — "  exclaimed  General  Knox, 
whose  opinion  in  council  was  ever  valuable  with  Washington — "It  in 
against  every  rule  of  military  science,  to  leave  a  fortified  stronghold  in  the 
rear  of  an  advancing  army.  Let  us  first  reduce  the  mansion  on  our  left, 
and  then  move  forward  into  the  centre  of  the  town  !" 

There  was  another  moment  of  solemn  council ;  the  older  officers  of  the 
staff*  united  in  opinion  with  Knox,  and  with  one  quick  anxious  glance 
around  the  scene  of  fog  and  mist,  Washington  gave  the  orders  to  storm  the 
house. 

And  at  the  word,  while  a  steady  volume  of  flame  was  flashing  from  Chew's 
House,  every  window  pouring  forth  its  blaze,  glaring  over  the  wreath  of 
mist,  the  continentals,  horse  and  foot,  formed  across  the  road,  to  the  north 
of  the  house,  eager  for  the  signal  which  would  bid  them  advance  into  the 
very  jaws  of  death. 

The  artillery  were  ranged  some  three  hundred  yards  from  the  mansion — 
their  cannon  being  placed  on  a  slight  elevation,  and  pointed  at  the  north-west 
corner  of  the  house.  This  was  one  of  the  grand  mistakes  of  the  battle,  oc 
casioned  by  the  density  of  the  fog.  Had  the  cannon  been  placed  in  a 
proper  position,  the  house  would  have  been  reduced  ere  the  first  warm  flush 
of  pursuit  was  cold  on  the  cheeks  of  the  soldiers. 

But  the  fog  gathered  thicker  and  more  densely  around,  the  soldien 
moved  like  men  moving  in  the  dark,  and  all  was  vague,  dim,  undefined  and 
uncertain. 

All  was  ready  for  the  storm.  Here  were  men  with  firebrands,  ready  to 
rush  forward  under  the  cover  of  the  first  volley  of  musquetry  and  fire  the 
house  ;  here  were  long  lines  of  soldiers  grasping  their  guns  with  a  quiet 
nervous  movement,  one  foot  advanced  in  the  act  of  springing  forward 


THE    FLAG    OF    TRUCE.  43 

yonler  were  the  cannomers,  their  pieces  loaded,  the  linstock  in  the  hand 
of  one  soldier,  while  another  stood  ready  with  the  next  charge  of  ammuni 
tion  ;  on  every  side  was  intense  suspense  and  expectation,  and  heard  above 
all  other  sounds,  the  rattle  of  the  British  musquetry  rose  like  thunder  over 
Chew's  lawn,  and  seen  the  brightest  of  all  other  sights,  the  light  of  the 
British  guns,  streamed  red  and  lurid  over  the  field,  giving  a  strange  bril- 
lia-ncy  to  the  wreaths  of  mist  above,  and  columns  of  armed  men  below. 

III.— THE   FLAG   OF   TRUCE. 

7  RADITION  states  that  at  this  moment,  when  every  thing  was  ready  for 
the  storm  of  death,  an  expression  of  the  most  intense  thought  passed  over 
the  impenetrable  countenance  of  Washington.  Every  line  of  his  features 
was  marked  by  thought,  his  lip  was  sternly  compressed,  and  his  eye 
gathered  a  strange  fire. 

He  turned  to  the  east,  and  bent  one  long  anxious  look  over  the  white 
folds  of  mist,  as  though  he  would  pierce  the  fog  with  his  glance,  and  gaze 
upon  the  advancing  columns  of  Greene  and  Stephen.  He  inclined  his  head 
to  one  side  of  his  steed,  and  listened  for  the  tramp  of  their  war-horses,  but 
in  vain.  He  turned  towards  Germantown  ;  all  was  silent  in  that  direction, 
the  main  body  of  the  enemy  were  not  yet  in  motion. 

And  then  in  a  calm  voice,  he  asked  for  an  officer  who  would  consent  to 
bear  a  flag  of  truce  to  the  enemy.  A  young  and  gallant  officer  of  Lee's 
Rangers,  sprang  from  his  horse  ;  his  name  Lieut.  Smith  ;  he  assumed  the 
snow-white  flag,  held  sacred  by  all  nations,  and  with  a  single  glance  ?t  the 
Continental  array,  he  advanced  to  Che\v1s  House. 

In  a  moment  he  was  lost  to  sight  amid  the  folds  of  the  fog,  and  hi?  way 
lay  over  the  green  lawn  for  some  two  hundred  yards.  All  was  still  and 
silent  around  him.  Tradition  states  that  the  fire  from  the  house  ceased  for 
a  moment,  while  Musgrave's  band  were  silently  maturing  their  plan  of  des 
perate  defence.  The  young  soldier  advanced  along  his  lonely  path,  speed 
ing  through  the  bosom  of  the  fog,  all  objects  lost  to  his  sight,  save  the  green 
verdure  of  the  sod,  yet  uncrimsoned  by  blood,  and  here  and  there  the  tmnk 
of  a  giant  tree  looming  blackly  through  the  mist. 

The  outline  of  a  noble  mansion  began  to  dawn  on  his  eye,  first  the  slop 
ing  roof,  then  the  massive  chimneys,  then  the  front  of  the  edifice,  and  then 
its  windows,  all  crowded  with  soldiers  in  their  crimson  attire,  whiskered 
face  appearing  above  face,  with  grisly  musquet  and  glittering  bayonet,  thrust 
out  upon  the  air,  while  with  fierce  glances,  the  hirelings  looked  forth  into 
the  bosom  of  that  fearful  mist,  which  still  like  a  death-shroud  for  millions, 
hung  over  the  lawn,  and  over  the  chimneys  of  the  house. 

The  young  officer  came  steadily  on,  and  now  he  stood  some  thirty  pace* 
from  the  house,  waving  his  white  flag  on  high,  and  then  whh  an  even  step 
he  advanced  toward  the  hall  door.  He  advanced,  but  he  never  reached 


44  THE    BATTLE    OF   UERMANTOWN. 

that  hall  door.  He  was  within  the  scope  of  the  British  soldiers'  vision 
they  could  have  almost  touched  him  with  an  extended  flag  staff,  when  the 
loud  word  of  command  rang  through  the  house,  a  volley  of  fire  blazed  from 
every  window,  and  the  whole  American  army  saw  the  fog  lifted  from  the 
surface  of  the  lawn,  like  a  vast  curtain  from  the  scenes  of  a  magnificent 
theatre. 

Slowly  and  heavily  that  curtain  uprose,  and  a  hail  storm  of  bullets 
whistled  across  the  plain,  when  the  soldiers  of  the  Continental  host  looked 
for  their  messenger  of  peace. 

They  beheld  a  gallant  form  in  front  of  the  mansion.  He  seemed  making 
an  effort  to  advance,  and  then  he  tottered  to  and  fro,  and  his  white  flag  dis 
appeared  for  a  moment ;  and  the  next  instant  he  fell  down  like  a  heavy 
weight  upon  the  sod,  and  a  hand  trembling  with  the  pulse  of  death  was 
raised  above  his  head,  waving  a  white  flag  in  the  air.  That  flag  was 
stained  with  blood  :  it  was  the  warm  blood  flowing  from  the  young  Vir 
ginian's  heart.  -  ,•  '- 

Along  the  whole  American  line  there  rang  one  wild  yell  of  horror.  Old 
men  raised  their  musquets  on  high,  while  the  tears  gathered  in  their  eyes  ; 
the  young  soldiers  all  moved  forward  with  one  sudden  step ;  a  wild  light 
blazed  in  the  eye  of  Washington ;  Wayne  waved  his  dripping  sword  on 
high ;  Pulaski  raised  his  proud  form  in  the  stirrups,  and  gave  one  meaning 
glance  to  his  men ;  and  then,  through  every  rank  and  file,  through  every 
column  and  solid  square,  rang  the  terrible  words  of  command,  and  high 
above  all  other  sounds  was  heard  the  voice  of  Washington — 

"  Charge,  for  your  country  and  for  vengeance — CHARGE  !" 


tfte  Eftirtr. 


CHEW'S  HOUSE. 

Now  bare  the  sword  from  its  sheath  blood-red, 

'Tis  wet  with  the  gore  of  the  massacred  dead  ; 

Now  raise  the  sword  in  the  cause  most  holy — 

And  while  the  whispers  of  ghosts  break  on  your  ear, 
Oh!  strike  without  mercy,  or  pity,  or  fear; 

Oh  !  ttriktifor  the  massacred  dead  of  Paoli  ! 

REVOLUTIONARY  SONG. 

l.-THE  FORLORN  HOPE. 

AND  while  the  mist  gathered  thicker  and  darker  above,  while  the  lurid 
columns  of  bathe  smoke  waved  like  a  banner  overhead,  while  all  around 
was  dim  and  indistinct, — all  objects  rendered  larger  and  swelled  to  gigantic 


THE  FORLORN  HOPE.  45 

proportions  by  the  action  of  the  log, — aiong  that  green  lawn  arose  the 
sound  of  charging  legions,  and  the  blaze  of  musquetry  flashing  from  the 
windows  of  Chew's  house,  gave  a  terrible  light  to  the  theatre  of  death. 

Again,  like  a  vast  curtain,  the  mist  uprose, — again  were  seen  armed  men 
brandishing  swords  aloft,  or  presenting  fixed  bayonets,  or  holding  the  sure 
rifle  in  their  unfailing  grasp,  or  yet  again  waving  torches  on  high,  all  rushing 
madly  forward,  still  in  regular  columns,  file  after  file,  squadron  after  squad 
ron — a  fierce  array  of  battle  and  of  death. 

It  was  a  sight  worth  a  score  of  peaceful  years  to  see  !  The  dark  and 
heavy  pall  of  battle  smoke  overhead,  mingled  with  curling  wreaths  of  snow- 
white  mist — the  curtain  of  this  theatre  of  death — the  mansion  of  dark,  grey 
stone,  rising  massive  and  ponderous  from  the  lawn,  each  peak  and  corner, 
each  buttress  and  each  angle,  shown  clearly  by  the  light  of  the  musquet 
flash — the  green  lawn  spreading  away  from  the  house — the  stage  of  the 
dread  theatre — crowded  by  bands  of  advancing  men,  with  arms  glittering  in 
the  fearful  light,  with  fierce  faces  stamped  with  looks  of  vengeance,  sweep 
ing  forward  with  one  steady  step,  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  fatal  honse ; 
while  over  their  heads,  and  among  their  ranks,  swept  and  fell  the  leaden 
bullets  of  their  foes,  hissing  through  the  air  with  the  sound  of  serpents,  or 
pattering  on  the  sod  like  a  hailstorm  of  death. 

And  while  a  single  brigade,  with  which  was  Washington  and  Sullivan 
and  Wayne,  swept  onward  toward  the  house,  the  other  troops  of  the  cen 
tral  division,  extending  east  and  west  along  the  fields,  were  forced  to  remain 
inactive  spectators  of  this  scene  of  death,  while  each  man  vainly  endeavored 
to  pierce  the  gloom  of  the  mist  and  smoke,  and  observe  the  course  of  the 
darkening  fight. 

Some  thirty  yards  of  green  lawn  now  lay  between  the  forlorn  hope  of 
the  advancing  Americans  and  Chew's  house  ;  all  became  suddenly  still  and 
hushed,  and  the  continentals  could  hear  their  own  foot  tramp  breaking  upon 
the  air  with  a  deadened  sound,  as  they  swept  onward  toward  the  mansion. 

A  moment  of  terrible  stillness,  and  then  a  moment  of  bloodshed  and  hor 
ror  !"  Like  the  crash  of  thunderbolts  meeting  in  the  zenith  from  distant 
points  of  the  heavens,  the  sound  of  musquetry  broke  over  the  lawn,  and 
from  every  window  of  Chew's  house,  from  the  hall  door,  and  from  behind 
the  chimneys  on  the  roof,  rolled  the  dense  columns  of  musquet  smoke ; 
while  on  every  side,  overhead,  around,  and  beneath,  the  musquet  flash  of 
the  British  glared  like  earth-riven  lightning  in  the  faces  of  the  Americans, 
and  then  the  mist  and  smoke  came  down  like  a  pall,  and  for  a  moment  all 
H"as  dark  as  midnight. 

A  wild  yell  broke  along  the  American  line,  and  then  the  voice  of  Wayne 
rung  out  through  the  darkness  and  the  gloom — "  Sweep  forward  under  the 
cuver  of  the  smoke — sweep  forward  and  storm  the  house  !  ' 

They  came  rushing  on,  the  gallant  band  of  rangers,  bearing  torches  in 
U  eir  hands — they  came  rushing  on,  and  their  path  lay  over  the  mangled 


40  THE   BATTLE   OF   GERMANTOWN. 

bodies  of  the  forlorn  hope,  scattered  along  the  sod,  in  all  the  ghastliness  of 
wounds  and  death,  and  at  their  backs  advanced  with  measured  step  the  firm 
columns  of  the  continental  army,  whue  the  air  was  heavy  with  the  shriek 
of  wounded  men,  and  burdened  with  cries  of  ar0  .y. 

On  they  swept,  trampling  over  the  face  of  the  dead  in  the  darkness  and 
gloom,  and  then  the  terrible  words  of  command  rung  out  upon  the  air-^ 
**  Advance  and  fire — advance  and  storm  the  house  !'' 

A  volley  of  sheeted  flame  arose  from  the  bosom  of  the  fog  along  the 
lawn,  the  thunder  of  the  American  musquetry  broke  upon  the  air,  and  the 
balls  were  heard  pattering  against  the  walls  of  the  house,  and  tearing  splin 
ters  from  the  roof. 

Another  moment,  and  the  pall  of  mist  and  battle  smoke  is  swept  aside, 
revealing  a  scene  that  a  thousand  words  might  not  describe — a  scene  whose 
hurry,  and  motion,  and  glare,  and  horror,  the  pencil  of  the  artist  might  in 
vain  essay  to  picture. 

There  were  glittering  bayonets  thrust  from  the  windows  of  the  house, — 
there  were  fierce  faces,  with  stout  forms  robed  in  crimson  attire,  thrust  from 
every  casement, — there  were  bold  men  waving  torches  on  high,  rushing 
around  the  house ;  here  a  party  were  piling  up  combustible  brush-wood ; 
there  a  gallant  band  were  affixing  their  scaling  ladder  to  a  second  story 
window,  yonder  another  band  were  thundering  away  at  the  hall  door,  with 
musquet  and  battle  axe ;  while  along  the  whole  sweep  of  the  wide  lawn 
poured  the  fire  of  the  continental  host,  with  a  flash  like  lightning,  yet  with 
uncertain  and  ineffectual  aim. 

The  hand  of  the  soldier  with  the  hand  gathered  near  the  combustible  pile 
under  a  window — the  hand  of  the  soldier  was  extended  with  the  blazing 
torch,  he  was  about  to  fire  the  heap  of  faggots,  when  his  shattered  arm  fell 
to  his  side,  and  a  dead  comrade  came  toppling  over  his  chest. 

A  soldier  near  the  hall  door  had  been  foremost  among  that  gallant  band, 
the  barricades  were  torn  away,  all  obstructions  well  nigh  cleared,  and  he 
raised  his  battle  axe  to  hew  the  door  in  fragments,  when  the  axe  fell  with  a 
clanging  sound  upon  the  threshold  stone,  and  his  comrades  caught  his  falling 
body  in  their  arms,  while  his  severed  jaw  hung  loosely  on  his  breast. 

The  party  who  rushed  forward  in  the  endeavor  to  scale  the  window  ! 
The  ladder  was  fixed — across  the  trench  dug  around  Chew's  house  it  was 
fixed — the  hands  of  two  sturdy  continentals  held  it  firm,  and  a  file  of  des 
perate  men,  headed  by  a  stalwart  backwoodsman,  in  rough  blue  shirt  and 
fur  cap,  with  buck-tail  plume,  began  the  ascent  of  death. 

The  foot  of  the  backwoodsman  touched  the  second  round  of  the  scaling 
ladder,  when  he  sprang  wildly  in  the  air,  over  the  heads  of  his  comrades, 
and  fell  dead  in  the  narrow  trench,  with  a  death  shriek  that  rang  in  the  ears 
of  all  who  heard  it  for  life.  A  musquet  ball  had  penetrated  his  skull,  and 
the  red  torrent  was  already  strearr/ng  over  his  forehead,  and  along  his 
iwarthv  features. 


THE  HORSEMAN  AND  HIS  MLSSAGE.  47 

The  Americans  again  rushed  forward  to  the  house,  but  it  was  like  rush 
ing  into  the  embrace  of  death  ;  again  they  scaled  the  windows,  again  were 
they  driven  back,  while  the  dead  bodies  of  their  comrades  littered  the  trench; 
again  they  strode  boldly  up  to  the  hall  door,  and  again  did  soldier  after 
soldier  crimson  the  threshold-stone  with  his  blood. 

II.— THE  HORSEMAN  AND  HIS  MESSAGE. 

And  while  the  battle  swelled  fiercest,  and  the  flame  flashing  from  the 
windows  of  Chew's  house  was  answered  by  the  volley  of  the  continental 
brigade,  two  sounds  came  sweeping  along  the  air,  one  from  the  south,  and 
the  other  from  the  northwest.  They  were  the  sounds  of  marching  men — 
the  tread  of  hurrying  legions. 

On  the  summit  of  a  gentle  knoll,  surrounded  by  the  officers  of  his  staff, 
Washington  had  watched  the  progress  of  the  fight  around  Chew's  mansion, 
not  more  than  two  hundred  yards  distant. 

With  Ins  calm  and  impenetrable  face,  wearing  an  unmoved  expression, 
he  had  seen  the  continentals  disappear  in  the  folds  of  the  fog,  he  had  seen 
file  after  file  marching  on  their  way  of  death,  he  had  heard  the  roar  of  con 
test,  the  shrieks  of  the  wounded  and  the  yells  of  the  dying  had  startled  his 
ear,  but  not  a  muscle  of  his  countenance  moved,  not  a  feature  trembled. 

But  when  those  mingling  sounds  of  marching  men  came  pealing  on  his 
ear,  he  inclined  slightly  to  one  side  of  his  steed  and  then  to  the  other,  as  if 
in  the  effort  to  catch  the  slightest  sound,  his  lips  were  fixedly  compressed 
and  his  eye  flashed  and  flashed  again,  until  it  seemed  turning  to  a  thing  of 
living  flame. 

The  sounds  grew  near,  and  nearer  !  A  horseman  approached  from  the 
direction  of  Germantown,  his  steed  was  well  nigh  exhausted  and  the  rider 
swayed  heavily  to  and  fro  in  the  saddle.  The  horse  came  thundering  up 
the  knoll,  and  a  man  with  a  ghastly  face,  spotted  with  blood,  leaned  from 
the  saddle  and  shrieked  forth,  as  he  panted  for  breath — 

"  General — they  are  in  motion — they  are  marching  through  Germantown 
— Kniphausen,  Agnew,  and  Grey,  they  will  be  on  you  in  a  moment,  and — 
Cornwallis — Cornwallis  is  sweeping  from  Philadelphia." 

The  word  had  not  passed  his  lips,  when  he  fell  from  his  steed  a  ghastly 
corpse. 

Another  messenger  stood  by  the  side  of  Washington — his  steed  was  also 
exhausted,  and  his  face  was  covered  with  dust,  but  not  with  blood.  He 
panted  for  breath  as  he  shrieked  forth  an  exclamation  of  joy  : — 

"  Greene  is  marching  from  the  northwest — attracted  by  the  fire  in  this 
quarter,  he  has  deviated  from  his  path,  and  will  be  with  you  in  a  moment?" 

And  as  he  spoke,  the  forms  of  a  vast  body  of  men  began  to  move,  dim 
and  indistinctly,  from  the  folds  of  the  fog  on  the  northwest,  and  then  the 
glare  of  crimson  was  seen  appearing  frorr  the  bosom  of  the  mist  on  the 


48  THE    BATTLE    OF    SERMANTOWN. 

south,  as  a  long  column  ol  red  coated  soldiers,  began  to  break  slowly  on  the 
vision  of  Washington  and  his  men. 

III.— THE  BRITISH  GENERAL. 

Turn  we  for  a  moment  to  Germantown. 

The  first  glimpse  of  day,  flung  a  grey  and  solemn  light  over  the  tenements 
of  Germantown,  when  the  sound  of  distant  thunder,  aroused  the  startled 
inhabitants  from  their  beds,  and  sent  them  hurriedly  into  the  street.  There 
they  crowded  in  small  groups,  each  one  asking  his  neighbor  for  the  expla 
nation  of  this  sudden  alarm,  and  every  man  inclining  his  ear  to  the  north, 
listening  intently  to  those  faint  yet  terrible  sounds,  thundering  along  the 
northern  horizon. 

The  crowded  moments  of  that  eventful  morn,  wore  slowly  on.  Ere  the 
day  was  yet  light,  the  streets  of  Germantown  were  all  in  motion,  crowds 
of  anxious  men  were  hurrying  hither  and  thither,  mothers  stood  on  the  rustic 
porch,  gathering  their  babes  in  a  closer  embrace,  and  old  men,  risen  in  haste 
from  their  beds,  clasped  their  withered  hands  and  lifted  their  eyes  to  heaven 
in  muttered  prayer,  as  their  ears  were  startled  by  the  sounds  of  omen  peal 
ing  from  the  north. 

The  British  leaders  were  yet  asleep ;  the  soldiers  of  the  camp,  it  is  true, 
had  risen  hastily  from  their  couches,  and  along  the  entire  line  of  the  British 
encampment,  ran  a  vague,  yet  terrible  rumor  of  coming  battle  and  of  sudden 
death ;  yet  the  generals  in  command  slept  soundly  in  their  beds,  visited,  it 
may  be,  with  pleasant  dreams  of  massacred  rebels,  fancy  pictures  of  the 
night  of  Paoli,  mingled  with  a  graphic  sketch  of  the  head  of  Washington 
adorning  one  of  the  gates  of  London,  while  the  grim  visage  of  mad  Anthony 
Wayne  figured  on  another 

The  footstep  of  a  booted  soldier  rang  along  the  village  street,  near  the 
market-house,  in  the  centre  of  the  village,  and  presently  a  tall  grenadier 
strode  up  the  stone  steps  of  an  ancient  mansion,  spoke  a  hurried  word  to 
the  sentinel  at  the  door,  and  then  hastily  entered  the  house.  In  a  moment 
he  stood  beside  the  couch  of  General  Grey,  he  roused  him  with  a  rude 
shake  of  his  vigorous  hands,  and  the  startled  *  Britisher'  sprang  up  as  hastily 
from  his  bed  as  though  he  had  been  dreaming  a  dream  of  the  terrible  night 
of  Paoli. 

"  Your  Excellency — the  Rebels  are  upon  us  !"  cried  the  grenadier — 
14  they  have  driven  in  our  outposts,  they  surround  us  on  every  side — " 

"  We  must  fight  it  out — away  to  Kniphausen — away  to  Agnew — " 

"  They  are  already  in  the  field,  and  the  men  are  about  advancing  to 
Chew's  House." 

But  a  moment  elapsed,  and  the  British  general  with  his  attire  hung  hastily 
aver  his  person,  rode  to  the  head  of  his  command,  and  while  Kniphausen, 
gay  with  the  laurels  of  Brandy  wine,  rode  from  rank  to  rank,  speaking 


THE    LEGEND    OF    GENERAL   AGNEW.  49 

encouragement  to  his  soldiers  in  his  broken  dialect,  the  British  army  moved 
forward  over  the  fields  and  along  the  solitary  street  of  Germantown  toward* 
Chew's  House. 

The  brilliant  front  of  the  British  extended  in  a  flashing  array  of  crimson, 
over  the  fields,  along  the  street ;  and  through  the  wreaths  of  mist  on  every 
side  shone  the  glitter  of  bayonets,  on  every  hand  was  heard  the  terrible 
tramp  of  16,000  men  sweeping  onward,  toward  the  field  of  battle,  their 
swords  eager  for  American  blood. 

As  the  column  under  command  of  General  Agnew  swept  through  the 
village  street,  every  man  noted  the  strange  silence  that  seemed  to  have 
come  down  upon  the  village  like  a  spell.  The  houses  were  all  carefully 
closed,  as  though  they  had  not  been  inhabited  for  years,  the  windows  were 
barricaded  ;  the  earthquake  tramp  of  the  vast  body  of  soldiers  was  the 
only  sound  that  disturbed  the  silence  of  the  town. 

Not  a  single  inhabitant  was  seen.  Some  had  fled  wildly  to  the  fields, 
others  had  hastened  with  the  strange  and  fearful  curiosity  of  our  nature  to 
the  very  verge  of  the  battle  of  Chew's  House,  and  in  the  cellars  of  the 
houses  gathered  many  a  wild  and  affrighted  group,  mothers  holding  their 
little  children  to  their  breasts,  old  men  whose  eyes  were  vacant  with  enfee 
bled  intellect,  asking  wildly  the  cause  of  all  this  alarm,  while  many  a  fair- 
cheeked  maiden  turned  pale  with  horror,  as  the  thunder  of  the  cannon  seemed 
to  shake  the  very  earth. 

IV.-THE  LEGEND  OF  GENERAL  AGNEW. 

A  singular  legend  is  told  in  relation  to  General  Agnew.  Tradition  states, 
that  on  the  eventful  morn,  as  he  led  the  troops  onward  through  the  town,  a 
singular  change  was  noted  in  his  appearance.  His  cheeks  were  pale  as 
death,  his  compressed  lip  trembled  witli  a  nervous  movement,  and  his  eyes 
glared  hither  and  thither  with  a  strange  wild  glance. 

He  turned  to  the  aid-de-camp  at  his  side,  and  said  with  a  ghastly  smile, 
that  this  day's  work  would  be  his  last  on  earth,  that  this  battle-field  would 
be  the  last  he  should  fight,  that  it  became  him  to  look  well  at  the  gallant 
array  of  war,  and  share  in  the  thickest  of  the  right,  for  in  war  and  in  fight 
should  his  hand  this  day  strike  its  last  and  dying  blow. 

And  tradition  states  that  as  his  column  neared  the  Mennonist  grave 
yard,*  a  man  of  strange  and  wild  aspect,  clad  in  the  skins  of  wild  beasts, 
with  scarred  face  and  unshaven  beard,  came  leaping  over  the  grave-yard 
wall,  and  asked  a  soldier  of  the  British  column,  with  an  idiotic  smile  whether 
that  gallant  officer,  riding  at  the  head  of  the  men,  was  the  brave  General 
Grey,  who  had  so  nobly  routed  the  rebels  at  Paoli  ? 


*  Adjoining  the  dwelling  of  Mr.  Samuel  Keyser,  about  three  fourths  o/  a  mile  be- 
low  Chew's  House 


50  THE    BATTLE    OF    GERMAN TO Wtf. 

The  soldier  replied  with  a  peevish  oath  that  yonder  officer  was  Genera. 
Grey,  and  he  pointed  to  General  Agnew  as  he  spoke. 

The  strange  man  said  never  a  word,  but  smiled  with  a  satisfied  look  and 
sprang  over  the  grave-yard  wall,  and  as  he  sprang,  a  bullet  whistled  past  the 
ear  of  General  Agnew,  and  a  thin  column  of  blue  smoke  wound  upward 
from  the  grave-yard  wall. 

The  General  turned  and  smiled.  His  officers  would  have  searched  the 
grave-yard  for  the  author  of  the  shot,  but  a  sound  broke  on  their  ears  from 
the  road  above,  and  presently  the  clatter  of  hoofs  and  the  clamor  of  swords 
came  thundering  through  the  mist. 

V.— THE  CONTEST  IN  THE  VILLAGE  STREET. 

And  in  a  moment  the  voice  of  Sullivan  was  heard — "  Charge — upon  the 
4  Britishers' — charge  them  home!" 

And  the  steeds  of  the  American  cavalry  came  thundering  on,  sweeping 
down  the  hill  with  one  wild  movement,  rushing  into  the  very  centre  of  the 
enemy's  column,  each  trooper  unhorsing  his  man,  while  a  thousand  fierce 
shouts  mingled  in  chorus,  and  the  infantry  advanced  with  fixed  bayo 
nets,  speeding  steadily  onward  until  they  had  driven  back  their  foes  with 
the  force  of  their  solid  charge. 

And  along  that  solitary  street  of  Germantown  swelled  the  din  and  terror 
of  battle,  there  grappled  with  the  fierce  grasp  of  vengeance  and  of  death  the 
columns  of  contending  foemen,  there  rode  the  troopers  of  the  opposite 
armies,  their  swords  mingling,  their  horses  meeting  breast  to  breast  in  the 
shock  of  this  fierce  tournament;  there  shrieked  the  wounded  and  dying, 
while  above  the  heads  of  the  combatants  waved  the  white  folds  of  mist, 
mingled  with  the  murky  battle  smoke. 

Sullivan  charged  bravely,  Wayne  came  nobly  to  his  rescue,  Pulaski 
scattered  confusion  into  the  ranks  of  the  enemy,  and  the  Americans  had 
been  masters  of  the  field  were  it  not  for  a  fresh  disaster  at  Chew's  House, 
combined  with  the  mistakes  of  the  various  bodies  of  the  Continentals,  who 
were  unable  to  discern  friend  from  foe  in  the  density  of  the  fog. 

VI.— CHEW'S    HOUSE    AGAIN. 

Meanwhile  the  contest  thickened  around  Chew's  house ;  the  division  of 
Greene,  united  with  the  central  body  of  the  American  army,  were  engaged 
with  the  left  wing  of  the  British  army,  under  Kniphausen,  Grant,  and  Grey, 
while  Sullivan  led  forward  into  the  town,  a  portion  of  the  advance  column 
of  his  division. 

Tradition  has  brought  down  to  our  times  a  fearful  account  of  the  carnage 
and  bloodshed  of  the  fight,  around  Chew's  house  at  this  moment,  when  the 
British  army  to  the  south,  and  the  Americans  to  the  north,  advanced  in  the 
terrible  charge,  under  the  cover  of  the  mist  and  gloom. 

It  was  like  fighting  in  the  dark.     The  Americans  advanced  column  after 


THE    ADVENTURE    OF    WASHINGTON  51 

column  ;  they  drove  back  the  British  columns  with  a  line  of  bristling 
bayonets,  while  the  fire  of  the  backwoodsmen  rattled  a  death-hail  over  the 
field  ;  but  it  was  all  in  vain  !  That  gloomy  mist  hung  over  their  heads, 
concealing  their  foes  from  sight,  or  investing  the  forms  of  their  friends  with 
a  doubtful  gloom,  that  caused  them  to  be  mistaken  for  British  ;  in  the 
fierce  melle  ;  all  was  dim,  undefined  and  indistinct. 

VII.— THE    ADVENTURE    OF    WASHINGTON. 

IT  was  at  this  moment  that  a  strange  resolution  came  over  the  mind  of 
Washington.  All  around  him  was  mist  and  gloom,  he  saw  his  men  disap 
pear  within  the  fog,  toward  Chew's  house,  but  he  knew  not  whether  their 
charg-e  met  with  defeat  or  victory.  He  heard  the  tread  of  hurrying 
legions,  the  thunder  of  the  cannon,  the  rattle  of  the  musquetry  broke  on  his 
ear,  mingled  with  the  shrieks  of  the  wounded  and  the  groans  of  the  dying. 
The  terrible  panorama  of  a  battle  field,  passed  vividly  before  his  eyes, 
but  still  he  knew  not  the  cause  of  the  impregnability  of  Chew's  house. 

He  determined  to  advance  toward  the  house,  and  examine  its  position  in 
person. 

He  turned  to  the  officers  of  his  staff — "  Follow  me  who  will  !"  he  cried, 
and  in  a  moment,  his  steed  of  iron  grey  was  careering  over  the  sod,  littered 
with  ghastly  corses,  while  the  air  overhead  was  alive  with  the  music  of  bul 
lets,  and  earth  beneath  was  flung  against  the  war  steed's  flanks  by  the  can 
non  ball. 

Followed  by  Hamilton,  by  Pickering,  by  Marshall,  and  by  Lee,  of  the 
gallant  legion,  Washington  rode  forward,  and  speeding  between  the  fires  of 
the  opposing  armies,  approached  the  house. 

At  every  step,  a  dead  man  with  a  livid  face  turned  upward ;  little  pools 
of  blood  crimsoning  the  lawn,  torn  fragments  of  attire  scattered  over  the 
sod  ;  on  every  side  hurrying  bodies  of  the  toemen,  while  terrible  and  unre 
mitting,  the  fire  flashing  from  the  windows  of  Chew's  House,  flung  a  lurid 
glare  over  the  battle-field. 

Washington  dashed  over  the  lawn  ;  he  approached  the  house,  and  every 
man  of  his  train  held  his  breath.  Bullets  were  whistling  over  their  heads, 
cannon  balls  playing  round  their  horses'  feet,  yet  their  leader  kept  on  his 
way  of  terror.  A  single  glance  at  the  house,  with  its  vollies  of  flame  flash 
ing  from  every  window,  and  he  turned  to  the  north  to  regain  the  American 
lines,  but  the  fog  and  smoke  gathered  round  him,  and  he  found  his  horse 
entangled  amid  the  enclosures  of  the  cattle-pen  to  the  north  of  the  mansion. 

"  Leap  your  horses — "  cried  Washington  to  the  brave  men  around  him 
— "  Leap  your  horses  and  save  yourselves  !" 

And  in  a  moment,  amid  the  mist  and  gloom  his  officers  leaped  the  north 
ern  enclosure  of  the  cattle-pen,  and  rode  forward  to  the  American  line, 
scarcely  abln  to  discover  their  path  in  the  dense  gloom  that  gathered  around 


52  THE    BATTLE    OF   GERMANTOWN. 

them.  They  reached  the  American  lines,  and  to  their  horror,  discovered 
that  Washington  was  not  among  their  band.  He  had  not  leaped  the  fence 
of  the  cattle-pen  ;  with  the  feeling  of  a  true  warrior,  he  was  afraid  of  injur 
ing  his  gallant  steed,  by  this  leap  in  the  dark. 

While  the  officers  of  the  staff  were  speeding  to  the  American  line,  Wash 
ington  turned  his  steed  to  the  south,  he  determined  to  re-pass  the  house 
strike  to  the  north-east,  and  then  facing  the  tires  of  both  armies,  regain  the 
Continental  lines. 

He  rose  proudly  in  the  stirrups,  he  placed  his  hand  gently  on  the  neck 
of  his  steed,  he  glanced  proudly  around  him,  and  then  the  noble  horse 
sprang  forward  with  a  sudden  leap,  and  the  mist  rising  for  a  moment  dis 
closed  the  form  of  Washington,  to  the  vision  of  the  opposing  armies. 


tfte 


THE  FALL  OF  THE  BANNER  OF  THE  STARS. 

1  What  seest  thou  now,  comrade  ?" 

"  I  look  from  the  oriel  window — I  see  a  forest  of  glittering  steel,  rising  in  the 
light,  with  the  snow-flakes  of  waving  plumes  flaunting  with  the  sunbeams!  Our 
men  advance — the  banner  of  the  stars  is  borne  aloft,  onward  and  on  it  sweeps,  like  a 
mighty  bird  ;  and  now  the  foemen  waver,  they  recoil — they — " 

"  They  fly!— they  fly!" 

"  No— no  ! — oh,  moment  of  horror  !— the  banner  of  the  stars  is  lost ! — the  flag  of 
olood-red  hue  rises  in  the  light — the  foemen  advance — I  dare  not  look  upon  the 
scene " 

"  Look  again,  good  comrade — look,  I  beseech  thee — what  seest  thou  now  ?" 

"  I  see  a  desolated  field,  strewn  with  dead  carcases  and  broken  arms — the  banner 
of  the  stars  is  trampled  in  the  dust — all  is  lost,  and  yet  not  ALL!" — Mss.  REVOLUTION 

I.— WASHINGTON    IN    DANGER. 

THE  form  of  the  Chieftain  rose  through  the  smoke  and  gloom  of  battle, 
in  all  its  magnificence  of  proportion,  and  majesty  of  bearing,  as  speeding 
between  two  opposing  fires — his  proud  glance  surveying  the  battle-field — he 
retraced  his  path  of  death,  and  rode  toward  the  American  army. 

He  was  now  in  front  of  Chew's  House,  he  was  passing  through  the  very 
sweep  of  the  fires,  belching  from  every  window  ;  the  bullets  whistled 
around  him  ;  on  every  hand  was  confusion,  and  darkness,  made  more 
fearful  by  the  glare  of  musquetry,  and  the  lightning  flash  of  cannon. 

He  is  now  in  front  of  Chew's  House  !  Another  moment  and  the  Man 
of  the  Army  may  fall  from  his  steed  riddled  by  a  thousand  bullets,  a  single 
moment  and  his  corse  may  be  added  to  the  heaps  of  dead  piled  along  the 


THE    UNKNOWN   FORM.  53 

lawn  in  all  the  ghastliness  of  death  ;  another  moment  and  the  Continenuls 
may  be  without  a  leader,  the  British  without  their  most  determined  foe. 

His  form  is  enrapt  in  mist,  he  is  lost  to  sight,  he  again  emerges  into 
light,  he  passes  the  house  and  sweeps  away  toward  the  Continental  army. 

He  passes  the  house,  and  as  he  speeds  onward  toward  the  American 
lines,  a  proud  gleam  lights  up  his  eye,  and  a  prouder  smile  wreaths  his  de 
termined  lips.  "  The  American  army  is  yet  safe,  they  are  in  the  path  to 
victory — "  he  exclaims,  as  he  rejoins  the  officers  of  his  staff,  within  the 
American  lines — "  Had  1  but  intelligence  of  Armstrong  in  the  West — of 
Smallwood  and  Forman  in  the  East,  with  one  bold  effort,  we  might  carry 
the  field  !" 

But  no  intelligence  of  Smallwood  or  Forman  came — Armstrong's  move 
ments  were  all  unknown — Stephens,  who  flanked  the  right  wing  of  Greene, 
was  not  heard  from,  nor  could  any  one  give  information  concerning  his 
position. 

And  as  the  battle  draws  to  a  crisis  around  Chew's  house,  as  the  British 
and  Americans  are  disputing  the  possession  of  the  lawn  now  flooded  with 
blood,  let  me  for  a  moment  turn  aside  from  the  path  of  regular  history,  and 
notice  some  of  the  legends  of  the  battle  field,  brought  down  to  our  times  by 
the  hoary  survivors  of  the  Revolution. 

II.— THE    UNKNOWN    FORM. 

LET  us  survey  Chew's  house  in  the  midst  of  the  fight. 

It  is  the  centre  of  a  whirpool  of  flame. 

Above  is  the  mist,  spreading  its  death  shroud  over  the  field.  Now  it  in 
darkened  into  a  pall  by  the  battle  smoke,  and  now  a  vivid  cannon  flash  lays 
bare  the  awful  theatre. 

Still  in  the  centre  you  may  see  Chew's  house,  still  from  every  window 
flashes  the  blaze  of  musquetry,  and  all  around  it  columns  of  jet  black  smoke 
curl  slowly  upward,  their  forms  clearly  defined  against  the  shroud  of  white 
mist. 

It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  stand  in  the  shadows  of  the  daybreak  hour,  by  the 
bedside  of  a  dying  father,  and  watch  that  ashy  face,  rendered  more  ghastly 
by  the  rays  of  a  lurid  taper — it  is  a  terrible  thing  to  clasp  the  hand  of  a  sis 
ter,  and  feel  it  grow  cold,  and  colder,  until  it  stiffens  to  ice  in  your  grasp — 
a  fearful  thing  to  gather  the  wife,  dearest  and  most  beloved  of  all,  to  your 
breast,  and  learn  the  fatal  truth,  that  the  heart  is  pulseless,  the  bosom  clay, 
the  eyes  fixed  and  glassy. — 

Yes,  Peath  in  any  shape,  in  the  times  of  Peace  by  the  fireside,  and  in 
ihe  Home,  is  a  fearful  thing,  talk  of  it  as  you  will. 

And  in  the  hour  when  Riot  howls  through  the  streets  of  a  wide  city,  its 
*en  thousand  faces  crimsoned  by  the  glare  of  a  burning  church,  Death  looks 
not  only  horrible  but  grotesque.  For  those  dead  men  laid  stiffly  along  the 


54  THE   BATTLE    OF    GERMANTOWN. 

streets,  their  cold  faces  turned  to  scarlet  by  the  same  glare  that  reveals  the 
cross  of  the  tottering  temple,  have  been  murdered  by  their — brother* 
Like  wild  beasts,  hunted  and  torn  by  the  hounds,  they  have  yielded  up  their 
lives,  the  warm  blood  of  their  hearts  mingling  with  the  filth  of  the  gutter. 

This  indeed  is  horrible,  but  Death  in  the  Battle,  who  shall  dare  paint  its 
pictures  ? 

What  pencil  snatched  from  the  hands  of  a  Devil,  shall  delineate  its  colors 
of  blood  ? 

Look  upon  Chew's  house  and  behold  it ! 

There — under  the  cover  of  the  mist,  thirty  thousand  men  are  hurrying  to 
and  fro,  shooting  and  stabbing  and  murdering  as  they  go  !  Look  !  The 
lawn  is  canopied  by  one  vast  undulating  sheet  of  flame  ! 

Hark  !  To  the  terrible  tramp  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  as  they  crash  on  over 
heaps  of  dead. 

Here,  you  behold  long  columns  of  blue  uniformed  soldiers ;  there  dense 
masses  of  scarlet.  Hark !  Yes,  listen  and  hear  the  horrid  howl  of 
slaughter,  the  bubbling  groan  of  death,  the  low  toned  pitiful  note  of  pain. 
Pain  ?  What  manner  of  pain?  Why,  the  pain  of  arms  torn  off  at  the 
shoulder,  limbs  hacked  into  pieces  by  chain  shot,  eyes  darkened  forever. 

Not  much  poetry  in  this,  you  say.  No.  Nothing  but  truth — truth  that 
rises  from  the  depths  of  a  bloody  well. 

From  those  heaps  of  dying  and  dead,  I  beseech  you  select  only  one  corse, 
and  gaze  upon  it  in  silence — Is  he  dead  ?  The  young  man  yonder  with  the 
pale  face,  the  curling  black  hair,  the  dark  eyes  wide  open,  glaring  upon  that 
shroud  above — is  he  dead  ? 

Even  if  he  is  dead,  stay,  O,  stay  yon  wild  horse  that  comes  rushing  on 
without  a  rider  ;  do  not  let  him  trample  that  young  face,  with  his  red  hoofs. 

For  it  may  be  that  the  swimming  eyes  of  a  sister  have  looked  upon  that 
face — perchance  some  fair  girl,  beloved  of  the  heart,  has  kissed  those  red 
lips — do  not  let  the  riderless  steed  come  on  ;  do  not  let  him  trample  into 
the  sod  that  face,  which  has  been  wet  with  a  Mother's  tears  ! 

And  yet  this  face  is  only  one  among  a  thousand,  which  now  pave  the  bat 
tle  field,  crushed  by  the  footsteps  of  the  hurrying  soldiers,  trampled  by  the 
horses'  hoofs. 

And  while  the  battle  swelled  fiercest,  while  the  armies  traversed  that 
green  lawn  in  the  hurry  of  contest,  along  the  blood  stained  sward,  with 
calm  manner  and  even  step,  strode  an  unknown  form,  passing  over  the 
field,  amid  smoke  and  mist  and  gloom,  while  the  wounded  fell  shrieking  at 
his  feet,  and  the  faces  of  the  dead  met  his  gaze  on  every  side. 

It  was  the  form  of  an  aged  man,  with  grey  hairs  streaming  over  hi,* 
shoulders,  an  aged  man  with  a  mild  yet  fearless  countenance,  with  a  tall 
and  muscular  figure,  clad  neither  in  the  glaring  dress  of  the  '  Britisher,'  or  the 
hunting  shirt  of  the  Continental,  but  in  the  plain  attire  of  drab  cloth,  the 


THE    UNKNOWN    FORM.  55 

simple  coat,  vest  with  wide    appels,  small  clothes  and  stockings,  that  mark 
the  believers  of  the  Quaker  faith. 

He  was  a  Friend.  Who  he  was,  or  what  was  his  name,  whence  he 
came,  or  whither  he  went,  no  one  could  tell,  and  tradition  still  remains 
silent. 

But  along  that  field,  he  was  seen  gliding  amid  the  heat  and  glare  of  bat- 
'tle.  Did  the  wounded  soldier  shriek  for  a  cup  of  water  ?  It  was  his  hand 
that  brought  it  from  the  well,  on  the  verge  of  Chew's  wall.  Extended 
along  the  sward,  with  their  ghastly  faces  quivering  with  the  spasmodic  throe 
of  insupportable  pain,  the  dying  raised  themselves  piteously  on  their  tremb 
ling  hands,  and  in  broken  tones  asked  for  relief,  or  in  the  wildness  of  de 
lirium  spoke  of  their  far  oft*  homes,  whispered  a  message  to  their  wives  or 
little  ones,  or  besought  the  blessing  of  their  grey  haired  sires. 

It  was  the  Quaker,  the  unknown  and  mysterious  Friend,  who  was  seen 
unarmed  save  with  the  Faith  of  God,  undefended  save  by  the  Armour  of 
Heaven,  kneeling  on  the  sod,  whispering  words  of  comfort  to  the  dying,  and 
pointing  with  his  uplifted  hand  to  a  home  beyond  the  skies,  where  battle 
nor  wrong  nor  death  ever  came. 

Around  Chew's  house  and  over  the  lawn  he  sped  on  his  message  of 
mercy.  There  was  fear  ami  terror  around  him,  the  earth  beneath  his  mea 
sured  footsteps  quivered,  and  the  air  was  heavy  with  death,  but  he  trembled 
not,  nor  quailed,  nor  turned  back  from  his  errand  of  mercy. 

Now  seen  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  the  soldiers  rushing  on  their  paths 
of  blood,  started  back  as  they  beheld  his  mild  and  peaceful  figure.  Some 
deemed  him  a  thing  of  air,  some  thought  they  beheld  a  spirit,  not  one  offered 
to  molest  or  harm  the  Messenger  of  Peace. 

It  was  a  sight  worth  all  the  ages  of  controversial  Divinity  to  see — this 
plain  Quaker  going  forth  with  the  faith  of  that  Saviour,  whose  name  has 
ever  been  most  foully  blasphemed  by  those  who  called  themselves  his 
friends,  going  forth  with  the  faith  of  Jesus  in  his  heart,  speaking  comfort  to 
the  dying,  binding  up  the  gashes  of  the  wounded,  or  yet  again  striding 
boldly  into  the  fight  and  rescuing  with  his  own  unarmed  hands  the  prostrate 
soldier  from  the  attack  of  his  maddened  foe. 

Blessings  on  his  name,  the  humble  Quaker,  for  this  deed  which  sanctifies 
humanity,  and  makes  us  dream  of  men  of  mortal  mould  raised  to  the  majesty 
of  Gods.  His  name  is  not  written  down,  his  history  is  all  unknown,  but 
when  the  books  of  the  unknown  world  are  bared  to  the  eyes  of  a 
congregated  universe,  then  will  that  name  shine  brighter  and  lighter  with  a 
holier  gleam,  than  the  name  of  any  Controversial  Divine  or  loud-mouthed 
nirelingr,  that  ever  disgraced  Christianity  or  blasphemed  the  name  of  Jesus. 

Ah,  methinks,  even  amid  the  carnage  of  Germantown,  I  see  the  face  of 
the  Redeemer,  bending  from  the  battle-mist,  and  smiling  upon  the  peaceful 
Quaker,  as  he  never  smiled  upon  learned  priest  or  mitred  prelate. 


66  THE   BATTLE   OF    GERMANTOWN. 


III.— THE  REVEL  OF  DEATH. 

WITHIN  Chew's  house  this  was  the  scene : 

Every  room  crowded  with  soldiers  in  their  glaring  crimson  attire,  the  old 
hall  thronged  by  armed  men,  all  stained  with  blood  and  begrimed  with  battle 
smoke,  the  stair-way  trembling  beneath  the  tread  of  soldiers  bearing  ammu 
nition  to  the  upper  rooms,  while  every  board  of  the  floor,  every  step  of  the 
stair-case  bore  its  ghastly  burden  of  dying  and  dead.  The  air  was  pestilent 
with  the  smell  of  powder,  the  walls  trembled  with  the  shock  of  battle ;  thick 
volumes  of  smoke  rolling  from  the  lower  rooms,  wound  through  the  doors, 
into  the  old  hall,  and  up  the  stairway,  enveloping  all  objects  in  a  pall  of 
gloom,  that  now  shifted  aside,  and  again  came  down  upon  the  forms  of  the 
British  soldiers  like  dark  night. 

Let  us  ascend  the  stairway.  Tread  carefully,  or  your  foot  will  trample 
on  the  face  of  that  dead  soldier ;  ascend  the  staircase  with  a  cautious  step, 
or  you  will  lose  your  way  in  the  battle  smoke. 

The  house  trembles  to  its  foundation,  one  volley  of  musquetry  after 
another  breaks  on  your  ear,  and  all  around  is  noise  and  confusion ;  nothing 
seen  but  armed  men  hurrying  to  and  fro,  nothing  heard  but  the  thunder  of 
the  fight. 

We  gain  the  top  of  the  stairway — we  have  mounted  over  the  piles  of 
dead — we  pass  along  the  entry — we  enter  the  room  on  the  right,  facing  to 
ward  the  lawn. 

A  scene  of  startling  interest  opens  to  our  sight.  At  each  window  are 
arranged  files  of  men,  who,  with  faces  all  blood  stained  and  begrimed,  are 
sending  their  musquet  shots  along  the  lawn ;  at  each  window  the  floor  is 
stained  with  a  pool  of  blood,  and  the  bodies  of  the  dead  are  dragged  away 
by  the  strong  hands  of  their  comrades,  who  fill  their  places  almost  as  soon 
as  they  receive  their  death  wound.  The  walls  are  rent  by  cannon  balls, 
and  torn  by  bullets,  and  the  very  air  seems  ringing  with  the  carnival  shouts 
of  old  Death,  rejoicing  in  the  midst  of  demons. 

Near  a  window  in  this  room  clustered  a  gallant  band  of  British  officers, 
who  gave  the  word  to  the  men,  directed  the  dead  to  be  taken  from  the  floor, 
or  gazed  out  upon  the  lawn  in  the  endeavor  to  pierce  the  gloom  of  the 
contest. 

Some  were  young  and  handsome  officers,  others  were  veterans  who  had 
mowed  their  way  through  many  a  fight,  and  all  were  begrimed  with  the 
blood  and  smoke  of  battle.  Their  gaudy  coats  were  rent,  the  epaulette  was 
torn  from  one  shoulder  by  the  bullet,  the  plume  from  the  helm  of  another, 
and  a  Uird  fell  in  his  comrades'  arms,  as  he  received  the  ball  in  his  heart. 

While  they  stood  gazing  from  the  window,  a  singular  incident  occurred. 

A  yourg  officer,  standing  in  the  midst  of  his  comrades,  felt  something 
d»-op  from  the  ceiling,  and  trickle  down  his  cheek. 


THE    REVEL    OF    DhATH.  57 

The  fight  was  fierce  and  bloody  in  the  attic  overhead.  They  could  hear 
the  cannon  balls  tearing  shingles  from  the  roof — they  could  hear  the  low, 
deep  groans  of  the  dying 

Another  drop  fell  from  the  ceiling — another  and  another. 

"It  is  blood  !"  cried  his  comrades,  and  a  laugh  went  round  the  group. 

Drop  after  drop  fell  from  the  ceiling;  and  in  a  moment  a  thin  liquid 
stream  came  trickling  down,  and  pattered  upon  the  blood-stained  floor. 

The  young  officer  reached  forth  his  hand,  he  held  it  extended  beneath  the 
falling  stream  :  he  applied  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Not  blood,  but  wine!"  he  shouted.     "  Good  old  Madeira  wine  !" 

The  group  gathered  round  the  young  officer  in  wonder.  It  was  wine — 
good  old  wine — that  was  dripping  from  the  ceiling.  In  a  few  moments  the 
young  officer,  rushing  through  the  gloom  and  confusion  of  the  stairway,  had 
ransacked  the  attic,  and  discovered  under  the  eaves  of  the  roof,  between  the 
rafters  and  the  floor,  some  three  dozen  bottles  of  old  Madeira  wine,  placed 
there  for  safe-keeping  some  score  of  years  before  the  battle.  These  bottles 
were  soon  drawn  from  their  resting-place,  and  the  eyes  of  the  group  in  the 
room  below  were  presently  astonished  by  the  vision  of  the  ancient  bottles, 
all  hung  with  cobwebs,  their  sealed  corks  covered  with  dust. 

In  a  moment  the  necks  were  struck  oft'  some  half-dozen  bottles,  and  while 
the  fire  poured  from  the  window  along  the  lawn,  while  cries  and  shrieks, 
and  groans,  broke  on  the  air;  while  the  smoke  came  rolling  in  the  window, 
now  in  folds  of  midnight  blackness,  and  now  turned  to  lurid  red  by  the 
glare  of  cannon  ;  while  the  terror  and  gloom  of  battle  arose  around  them, 
the  group  of  officers  poured  the  wine  in  an  ancient  goblet,  discovered  in  a 
closet  of  the  mansion, — they  filled  it  brimming  full  with  wine,  and  drank  a 
royal  health  to  the  good  King  George  ! 

They  drank  and  drank  again,  until  their  eyes  sparkled,  and  their  lips 
grew  wild  with  loyal  words,  and  their  thirst  for  blood — the  blood  of  the 
rebels — was  excited  to  madness.  Again  and  again  were  the  soldiers  shot 
down  at  the  window,  again  were  their  places  filled,  and  once  more  the  gob 
let  went  round  from  lip  to  lip,  and  the  old  wine  was  poured  forth  like  water, 
in  healths  to  the  good  King  George  ! 

And  as  they  drank,  one  by  one,  the  soldiers  were  swept  away  from  the 
windows,  until  at  the  last  the  officers  stood  exposed  to  the  blaze  of  the 
American  fire,  flashing  from  the  green  lawn. 

"  Health  to  King  George — Death  to  the  rebels  !" 

'i  he  shout  arose  from  the  lips  of  a  grey-haired  veteran,  and  he  fell  to  the 
floor,  a  mangled  corse.  The  arm  that  raised  the  goblet  was  shattered  at 
the  elbow  by  one  musket  ball,  as  another  penetrated  his  brain. 

The  goblet  was  seized  by  another  hand,  and  the  revel  grew  loud  and 
wild.  The  sparkling  wine  was  poured  forth  like  water,  healths  were  drank, 
hurrahs  were  shouted,  and — another  officer  measured  his  length  on  the  floor. 
He  had  received  his  ball  of  death 


58  THE    BATTLE    OF   GERMANTt  WN. 

There  was  something  of  ludicrous  horror  in  the  scene. 

Those  sounds  of  revel  and  bacchanalian  uproar,  breaking  on  the  air,  amid 
the  intervals — the  short  and  terrible  intervals  of  battle — those  faces  flushed 
by  wine,  and  agitated  by  all  the  madness  of  the  moment,  turned  from  one 
side  to  another,  every  lip  wearing  a  ghastly  smile,  every  eye  glaring  from 
its  socket,  while  every  voice  echoed  the  drunken  shout  and  the  fierce 
hurrah. 

Another  officer  fell  wounded,  and  another,  and  yet  another.  The  young 
officer  who  had  first  discovered  the  wine  alone  remained. 

Even  in  this  moment  of  horror,  we  cannot  turn  our  eyes  away,  from  his 
young  countenance,  with  its  hazel  eyes  and  thickly  clustered  hair ! 

He  glanced  round  upon  his  wounded  and  dying  comrades,  he  looked 
vacantly  in  the  faces  of  the  dead,  he  gazed  upon  the  terror  and  confusion 
of  the  scene,  and  then  he  seized  the  goblet,  filled  it  brimming-full  with  wine, 
and  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

His  lip  touched  the  edge  of  the  goblet,  his  face  was  reflected  in  the 
quivering  wavelets  of  the  wine,  his  eyes  rolled  wildly  to  and  fro,  and  then 
a  musket  shot  pealed  through  the  window.  The  officer  glared  around  with 
a  maddened  glance,  and  then  the  warm  blood,  spouting  from  the  wound 
between  his  eyebrows,  fell  drop  by  drop  into  the  goblet,  and  mingled  with 
the  wavelets  of  the  ruby  wine. 

And  then   there  was  a  wild  shout ;  a  heavy  body  toppled  to  the  floor 
and  the  young  soldier  with  a  curse  on  his  lips  went  drunken  to  his  God. 

Let  us  for  a  moment  notice  the  movements  of  the  divisions  of  Washing 
ton's  army,  and  then  return  to  the  principal  battle  ground  at  Chew's  house. 

The  movements  of  the  divisions  of  Smallwood  and  Forman  are,  to  this 
day,  enveloped  in  mystery.  They  came  in  view  of  the  enemy,  but  the 
density  of  the  mist,  prevented  them  from  effectually  engaging  with  the 
British. 

Armstrong  came  marching  down  the  Manatawny  road,  until  the  quiet 
Wissahikon  dawned  on  the  eyes  of  his  men  ;  but  after  this  moment,  his 
march  is  also  wrapt  in  mystery. — Some  reports  state  that  he  actually 
engaged  with  the  Hessian  division  of  the  enemy,  others  state  that  the  alarm 
of  the  American  retreating  from  Chew's  house  reached  his  ear,  as  the  van 
guard  of  his  command  entered  Germantown,  near  the  market-house,  apd 
commenced  firing  upon  the  chasseurs  who  flanked  the  left  wing  of  the 
British  army. 

However  this  may  be,  yet  tradition  has  brought  down  to  our  times  a  ter 
rible  legend  connected  with  the  retreat  of  Armstrong's  division.  The 
theatre  of  this  legend  was  the  quiet  Wissahikon,  and  this  is  the  story  of 
ancient  tradition. 


THE      WISSAHIKON.  59 


IV.— THE   WISSAHIKON. 

It  is  a  poem  of  everlasting  beauty — a  dream  of  magnificence — the 
world-hidden,  wood-embowered  Wissahikon.  Its  pure  waters  break  for 
ever  in  ripples  of  silver  around  the  base  of  colossal  rocks,  or  sweep  mur- 
muringly  on,  over  beds  of  pebbled  Hints,  or  spread  into  calm  and  mirror- 
like  lakes,  with  shores  of  verdure,  surmounted  by  green  hills,  rolling  away 
in  waves  of  forest  trees,  or  spreading  quietly  in  the  fierce  light  of  the  sum 
mer  sun,  with  the  tired  cattle  grouped  beneath  the  lofty  oaks. 

It  is  a  poem  of  beauty — where  the  breeze  mourns  its  anthem  through  the 
tall  pines  ;  where  the  silver  waters  send  up  their  voices  of  joy  ;  where 
calmness,  and  quiet,  and  intense  solitude  awe  the  soul,  and  fill  the  heart 
with  bright  thoughts  and  golden  dreams,  woven  in  the  luxury  of  the  sum 
mer  hour. 

From  the  moment  your  eyes  first  drink  in  the  gladness  of  its  waters,  as 
they  pour  into  the  Schuylkill,  seven  miles  from  Philadelphia,  until  you  be 
hold  it  winding  its  thread  of  silver  along  the  meadows  of  Whitemarsh,  many 
miles  above,  it  is  all  beauty,  all  dream,  all  magnificence. 

It  breaks  on  your  eye,  pouring  into  the  Schuylkill,  a  calm  lake,  with  an 
ancient  and  picturesque  mill*  in  the  foreground.  A  calm  lake,  buried  in 
the  depths  of  towering  steeps,  tbat  rise  almost  perpendicularly  on  either 
side,  casting  a  shadow  of  gloom  over  the  water,  while  every  steep  is  green 
with  brushwood,  every  rocky  cleft  magnificent  with  the  towering  oak,  the 
sombre  pine,  or  the  leafy  chesnut. 

This  glen  is  passed  ;  then  you  behold  hilly  shores,  sloping  away  to  the 
south  in  pleasant  undulations,  while  on  the  north  arise  frowning  steeps. 
Then  your  mind  is  awed  by  tremendous  hills  on  either  side,  creating  one 
immense  solitude  ;  rugged  steeps — all  precipice  and  perpendicular  rock — 
covered  and  crowded  with  giant  pines,  and  then  calm  and  rippleless  lakes, 
shadowy  glens,  deep  ravines  and  twilight  dells  of  strange  and  dreamy 
beauty. 

There  is,  in  sooth,  a  stamp  of  strange  and  dreamy  beauty  impressed 
upon  every  ripple  of  the  Wissahikon,  every  grassy  bank  extending  greenly 
along  its  waters,  on  every  forest-tree  towering  beside  its  shores. 

On  the  calm  summer's  day,  when  the  sun  is  declining  in  the  west,  you 
may  look  from  the  height  of  some  grey,  rugged  steep,  down  upon  the  depths 
of  the  world-hidden  waters.  Wild  legends  wander  across  your  fancy  as 
you  gaze ;  every  scene  around  you  seems  but  the  fitting  location  for  a  wild 
and  dreamy  tradition,  every  rock  bears  its  old  time  story,  every  nook  of  the 
wild  wood  has  its  tale  of  the  ancient  days.  The  waters,  deep,  calm,  and 
well-like,  buried  amidst  overhanging  hills,  have  a  strange  and  mysterious 

*  Formerly  Vanduring's,  now  Robinson's  mill. 


*0  THE    BATTLE    OF    GERMANTOWN. 

clearness.  The  long  shadows  of  the  hills,  broken  by  golden  belts  of  sun 
shine,  clothe  the  waters  in  sable  and  gold,  in  glitter  and  in  shadow.  All 
around  is  quiet  and  still ;  silence  seems  to  have  assumed  a  positive  existence 
imid  these  vallies  of  romance  and  of  dreams. 

It  was  along  the  borders  of  this  quiet  stream,  that  an  ancient  fabric  arose 
towering  through  the  verdure  of  the  trees,  with  its  tottering  chimneys 
enveloped  in  folds  of  mist.  The  walls  were  severed  by  many  a  fissure,  the 
windows  were  crumbling  to  decay ;  the  halls  of  the  ancient  mansion  were 
silent  as  the  tomb. 

It  was  wearing  toward  noon,  when  a  body  of  soldiers,  wearing  the  blue 
hunting-shirt  and  fur  cap  with  bucktail  plume,  came  rushing  from  the  woods 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  rivulet,  came  rushing  through  the  waters  of  the 
lonely  stream,  and  hurried  with  hasty  steps  toward  the  deserted  house. 

In  a  moment  they  had  entered  its  tottering  doorway,  and  disappeared 
within  its  aged  walls.  Another  instant,  and  a  body  of  soldiers  broke  from 
the  woods  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  stream,  clad  in  the  Hessian  costume, 
with  ponderous  bearskin  caps,  heavy  accroutements,  and  massive  muskets. 

They  crossed  the  stream,  and  rushed  into  the  house  in  pursuit  of  the 
flying  continentals.  They  searched  the  rooms  on  the  first  floor ;  they  hur 
ried  along  the  tottering  timbers,  but  not  a  single  Continental  was  to  be  seen. 
They  ascended  the  crumbling  stairway  with  loud  shouts  and  boisterous 
oaths,  and  reached  the  rooms  of  the  second  story.  Every  door  was  flung 
hastily  aside,  every  closet  was  broken  open,  the  boards  were  even  torn  from 
the  floor,  every  nook  was  searched,  every  corner  ransacked,  and  yet  no 
vision  of  a  blue  shirted  backwoodsman,  met  the  eye  of  the  eager  Hessians. 

All  was  silent  as  death. 

Their  own  footfalls  were  returned  in  a  thousand  echoes,  their  own  shouts 
alone  disturbed  the  silence  of  the  house,  but  no  sound  or  sight,  could  be  ob 
tained  of  the  fleeing  Continentals.  Every  room  was  now  searched,  save 
the  garret,  and  the  Hessians,  some  twenty  men,  able  bodied  and  stout,  were 
about  rushing  up  the  stairway  of  the  attic  in  pursuit  of  the  ten  Continental 
soldiers,  when  the  attention  of  one  of  their  number  was  arrested  by  a  sin 
gular  spectacle. 

The  Hessian  soldier  beheld  through  a  crumbling  window  frame,  the 
figure  of  a  woman,  standing  on  the  height  of  an  abrupt  steep,  overhanging 
the  opposite  side  of  the  stream.  She  waved  her  hands  to  the  soldier, 
shouted  and  waved  her  hands  again.  He  heeded  her  not,  but  rushed  up  the 
stairway  after  his  companions. 

The  shout  of  that  unknown  woman  was  the  warning  of  death. 

While  the  Hessians  were  busily  engaged  in  searching  the  attic,  while 
their  shouts  and  execrations  awoke  the  echoes  of  the  roof,  while  they  were 
thrusting  sword  and  bayonet  into  the  dark  corners  of  the  apartment,  that 
shout  of  the  woman  on  the  rock,  arose,  echoing  over  the  stream  again  and 
again. 


THE    CRISIS    OF    THE   FIGHT.  01 

The  Hessians  rushed  'o  the  window,  they  suddenly  remembered  that 
they  had  neglected  to  search  the  cellar,  and  looking  far  below,  they  beheld 
thin  wreaths  of  light  blue  smoke,  winding  upward  from  the  cellar  window. 

A  fearful  suspicion  crept  over  the  minds  of  the  soldiers. 

The;'  rushed  from  the  attic,  in  a  moment  they  might  reach  the  lower 
floor  and  escape.  With  that  feeling  of  unimaginable  terror  creeping  round 
each  heart  and  paling  every  face,  they  rushed  tremblingly  on,  they  gained 
the  second  floor,  their  footsteps  already  resounded  along  the  stairway  when 
the  boards  trembled  beneath  their  feet,  a  horrid  combination  of  sounds  assailed 
their  ears,  aud  the  walls  rocked  to  and  fro  like  a  frantic  bacchanal. 

Another  moment!  And  along  that  green  wood  rang  a  fearful  sound, 
louder  and  more  terrible  than  thunder,  shaking  the  very  rocks  with  an  earth 
quake  motion,  while  the  fragments  of  the  ancient  fabric  arose  blackening 
into  the  heavens,  mingled  with  human  bodies  torn  and  scattered  into  innu 
merable  pieces,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  a  dense  smoke,  that  hung  over 
the  forest,  in  one  thick  and  blackening  pall. 

In  a  few  moments  the  scene  was  clear,  but  the  ancient  house  had  disap 
peared  as  if  by  magic,  while  the  shouts  of  the  Continental  soldiers  were 
heard  in  the  woods,  far  beyond  the  scene. 

The  house  had  been  used  by  the  British  as  a  temporary  depot  of  powder. 
When  the  American  Continentals  rushed  into  the  cellar,  they  beheld  the 
kegs  standing  in  one  corner,  they  piled  up  combustible  matter  in  its  vicinity 
and  then  made  their  escape  from  the  house  by  a  subterranean  passage 
known  only  to  themselves.  They  emerged  into  open  air  some  hundred 
yards  beyond,  and  beheld  the  result  of  this  signal  vengeance  on  their  foes. 

V.— THE    CRISIS   OF   THE   FIGHT. 

AGAIN  we  return  to  the  field  of  Chew's  House. 

\Vashington  determined  to  make  one  last  and  desperate  effort.  The 
Corps  de  Reserve  under  Stirling,  and  Maxwell,  and  Nash,  came  thundering 
along  the  field  ;  each  sword  unsheathed,  every  bayonet  firm  ;  every  man 
eager  and  ready  for  the  encounter. 

It  was  now  near  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning. — The  enemy  still  retained 
Chew's  house.  The  division  under  Greene,  the  main  body  commanded 
by  Wayne,  by  Sullivan  and  Conway,  composed  the  American  force  engaged 
in  actual  contest. — To  this  force  was  now  added  the  Corps  de  Reserve, 
under  Lord  Stirling,  Generals  Maxwell  and  Nash. 

The  British  force,  under  command  of  General  Howe,  who  had  arrived 
on  the  field  soon  after  the  onslaught  at  Chew's  House,  were  led  to  battle  by 
Kniphausen,  Agnew,  Grant,  and  Grey,  who  now  rode  from  troop  to  troop, 
from  rank  to  rank,  hurrying  the  men  around  toward  the  main  point  of  the  flight. 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  horror  of  the  battle. 

The  Americans  rested  on  their  arms,  the  troopers  reined  in  their  steeds 


62  THE    BATTLE    OF    GERMANTOWN. 

in  signt  of  Chew's  House,  and  amid  the  bodies  of  the  dead.  The  Conti 
nental  ranks  were  terribly  thinned  by  the  desolating  fire  from  the  house ; 
every  file  was  diminished,  and  in  some  instances,  whole  companies  were 
swept  away. 

The  British  were  fresh  in  vigor,  and  ably  armed  and  equipped.  They 
impatiently  rushed  forward,  eager  to  steep  their  arms  in  American  blood. 

And  amid  the  folds  of  mist  and  battle-smoke — while  the  whole  field  re 
sembled  some  fearful  phantasmagoria  of  fancy,  with  its  shadowy  figures  flit 
ting  to  and  fro,  while  the  echo  of  the  cannon,  the  rattle  of  the  musquetry, 
and  the  shrieks  of  the  wounded  yet  rung  on  the  soldiers'  ears — they  eagerly 
awaited  the  signal  for  the  re- commencement  of  the  fight. 

The  signal  rang  along  the  lines  !  Tn  an  instant  the  cannons  opened  their 
fire  on  Chew's  house,  the  troopers  came  thundering  on  in  their  hurricane 
charge.  All  around  were  charging  legions,  armed  bodies  of  men  hurrying 
toward  the  house,  heaps  of  the  wounded  strown  over  the  sod.  That  terri 
ble  cry  which  had  for  three  long  hours  gone  shrieking  up  to  heaven  from 
that  lawn,  now  rose  above  the  tumult  of  battle — the  quick  piercing  cry  of 
the  strong  man,  smitten  suddenly  down  by  his  death-wound. 

The  American  soldiers  fought  like  men  who  fight  for  everything  that  man 
needs  for  sustenance,  or  holds  dear  in  honor,  or  sacred  in  religion.  Step  by 
step  the  veteiar?  continentals  drove  the  Britishers  over  the  field,  trampling 
down  the  faces  ot  their  dead  comrades  in  the  action  ;  step  by  step  were 
they  driven  back  in  their  turn,  musquets  were  clubbed  in  the  madness  of  the 
strife,  and  the  cry  for  "quarter,"  fell  on  deafened  ears. 

Then  it  was  that  the  chieftains  of  the  American  host  displayed  acts  of 
superhuman  courage  ! 

fn  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  where  swords  flashed  most  vivedly,  where 
death-groans  shrieked  most  terribly  upon  the  air,  where  the  steeds  of  con 
tending  squadrons  rushed  madly  against  each  other  in  the  wild  encounter  of 
the  charge,  there  might  you  see  mad  Anthony  Wayne ;  his  imposing  form 
towering  over  the  heads  of  the  combatants,  his  eye  blazing  with  excitement, 
and  his  sword,  all  red  with  blood,  rising  and  falling  like  a  mighty  hammer 
in  the  hands  of  a  giant  blacksmith. 

How  gallantly  the  warrior-drover  rides  !  Mounted  on  his  gallant  war- 
steed,  he  comes  once  more  to  battle,  his  sword  gleaming  like  a  meteor, 
around  his  head.  On  and  on,  without  fear,  without  a  thought  save  his  coun 
try's  honoi  and  the  vengeance  of  Paoli — on  and  on  he  rides  and  as  he 
speeds,  his  shout  rings  out  clear  and  lustily  upon  the  air — 

"  On,  comrades,  on — and  Remember  Paoli  /" 

"Forwarts,  brudtrn,  forwarts  /" 

Ha  !  The  gallant  Pulaski !  How  like  a  king  he  rides  at  the  head  of  his 
.ron  band,  how  firmly  he  sits  in  his  stirrups,  how  gallantly  he  beckons  his 
men  onw?rd,  hc*^  like  a  sunbeam  playing  on  glittering  ice,  his  sword  flits  to 
and  fro,  along  the  darkened  air  ! 


THE    CRISIS    OF    THE    FIGHT.  63 

I^ike  one  solid  battle-bolt,  his  gallant  band  speed  onward,  carrying  terror 
and  confusion  into  the  very  centre  of  Kniphausen's  columns,  leaving  a  line* 
of  dead  men  in  their  rear,  and  driving  the  discomfitted  Hessians  before  them. 
while  the  well-known  battle-shout  of  Pulaski  halloos  these  war-hounds  on 


'*  Forwarts  —  briidern  —  forwarts  !" 

And  there  he  rides,  known  to  all  the  men  as  their  commander,  seen  by 
every  eye  in  the  interval  of  the  battle-smoke,  hailed  by  a  thousand  voices 
—  WASHINGTON  ! 

Hark  !  How  the  cheer  of  his  deep-toned  voice  swells  through  the  confu 
sion  of  battle  ! 

A  calm  and  mild-faced  man,  leading  on  a  column  of  Continentals,  rides 
up  to  his  side,  and  is  pushing  forward  into  the  terror  of  the  mist-hidden 
mele£,  when  the  voice  of  Washington  rings  in  his  ear  — 

"  Greene  —  why  is  Stephens  not  here  ?  Why  does  he  delay  his  divi 
sion  ?" 

"  General,  we  have  no  intelligence  of  his  movements.  He  has  not  yet 
appeared  upon  the  field  —  " 

Washington's  lip  quivered.  A  world  seemed  pent  up  in  his  heart,  and 
for  once  in  his  entire  life,  his  agitation  was  visible  and  apparent. 

He  raised  his  clenched  hand  on  high,  and  as  Napoleon  cursed  Grouchy 
at  Waterloo,  in  after  times,  so  Washington  at  Germantown  cursed  Stephens, 
from  his  very  heart  of  hearts.  The  glittering  game  of  battle  was  being 
played  around  him.  Stephens  alone  was  wanting  to  strike  terror  into  the 
ranks  of  the  enemy  around  Chew's  house,  the  crisis  had  come  —  and  Ste 
phens  was  not  there,  one  of  the  most  important  divisions  of  the  army  was 
powerless. 

And  now  the  gallant  Stirling,  the  brave  Nash,  and  the  laurelled  Maxwell, 
came  riding  on,  at  the  head  of  the  corps  de  reserve,  every  man  with  his 
sword  and  bayonet,  yet  unstained  with  blood,  eager  to  join  the  current  of  the 
fight. 

Nash  —  the  brave  General  of  the  North  Carolina  Division,  was  rushing 
into  the  midst  of  the  melee  with  his  men,  leading  them  on  to  deeds  of  cour 
age  and  renown,  when  he  received  his  death-wound,  and  fell  insensible  in 
the  arms  of  one  of  his  aids-de-camp. 

The  mist  gathering  thicker  and  denser  over  the  battle  field,  caused  a  ter 
rible  mistake  on  die  part  of  the  American  divisions.  They  charged  against 
their  own  friends,  shot  down  their  own  comrades,  and  even  bayonetted  the 
very  soldiers  who  had  shared  their  mess,  ere  they  discovered  the  fatal  mis 
take.  The  mist  and  battle-smoke  rendered  all  objects  dim  and  indistinct— 
the  fvent  of  this  battle  will  show,  that  it  was  no  vain  fancy  of  the  author, 
which  induced  him  to  name  this  mist  of  Germantown  —  the  Shroud  of 
Death.  It  proved  a  shroud  of  death,  in  good  sooth,  for  hundreds  who  laid 
down  their  lives  on  the  sod  of  the  battle  field. 


54  THE    BATTLE    OF   GERMANTOWN. 

The  gallant  Colonel  Matthews,  at  the  head  of  a  Virginia  regiment,  pene 
trated  into  the  centre  of  the  town,  driving  the  British  before  him  at  pleasure, 
xnd  after  this  glorious  effort,  he  was  returning  to  the  American  lines  with 
tome  three  hundred  prisoners,  when  he  encountered  a  body  of  troops  in  the 
mist,  whom  he  supposed  to  be  Continentals.  He  rode  unfearingly  into  their 
midst,  iiiul  found  himself  a  prisoner  in  the  heart  of  the  British  army  !  The 
mist  had  foiled  his  gallant  effort ;  his  prisoners  were  recaptured,  himself  and 
his  men  were  captives  to  the  fortune  of  war. 

VI.— "RETREAT." 

Now  it  was  that  Washington  beheld  his  soldiers  shrink  and  give  way  on 
every  side  !  On  every  hand  they  began  to  waver,  from  line  to  line,  from 
column  to  column  ran  terrible  rumors  of  the  approach  of  Cornwallis,  with 
a  reinforcement  of  grenadiers;  the  American  soldiers  were  struck  with  despair. 
They  had  fought  while  there  was  hope,  they  had  paved  their  way  to  vic 
tory  vt.th  heaps  of  dead,  they  had  fought  against  superior  discipline,  superior 
force,  superior  fortune,  but  the  mist  that  overhung  the  battle  field,  blasted  all 
their  hopes,  and  along  the  American  columns  rang  one  word,  that  struck 
like  a  knell  of  death  on  the  heart  of  Washington — "re/mz/" — "RETREAT  !" 
It  was  all  in  vain  that  the  American  chieftain  threw  himself  in  the  way 
of  the  retreating  ranks  and  besought  them  to  stand  firm — for  the  sake  of 
their  honor,  for  the  sake  of  their  country,  for  the  sake  of  their  God. 

It  was  all  in  vain  !  In  vain  was  it  that  Pulaski  threw  his  troopers  in  the 
path  chosen  by  the  fugitives ;  in  vain  did  he  wave  his  sword  on  high,  and 
beseech  them  in  his  broken  dialect,  with  a  flushed  cheek  and  a  maddening 
eye,  implore  them  to  turn  and  face  the  well-nigh  conquered  foe  !  It  was  in 
vain ! 

In  vain  did  Mad  Anthony  Wayne,  the  hero  of  Pennsylvania,  ride  from 
rank  to  rank,  and  with  his  towering  form  raised  to  its  full  height,  hold  his 
hand  aloft,  and  in  the  familiar  tones  of  brotherly  intimacy,  beckon  the  sol 
diers  once  again  to  the  field  of  battle. 

All  was  in  vain ! 

And  while  Chew's  house  still  belched  forth  its  fires  of  death,  while  all 
through  Germantown  were  marching  men,  hot-foot  from  Philadelphia,  while 
over  the  fatal  lawn  rushed  hurried  bands  of  the  Continentals,  seeking  for 
their  comrades  among  the  dead,  Washington  gazed  to  the  north  and  beheld 
the  columns  of  Continentals,  their  array  all  thinned  arid  scattered,  their  num 
bers  limmished,  taking  their  way  along  the  northern  road,  calmly  it  is  true, 
and  in  -amarkable  order,  but  still  in  the  order  of  a  retreat,  though  the  enemy 
showed  no  disposition  to  annoy  or  pursue  them. 

And  while  his  heart  swelled  to  bursting,  and  his  lip  was  pressed  between 
his  teeth  in  anguish,  Washington  bowed  his  head  to  the  mane  of  his  gallant 
'grey"  and  veiled  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  then  his  muscular  chest  throb 
bed  as  though  a  tempest  were  pent  up  within  its  confines. 


"RETREAT."  65 

fn  a  moment  ne  raised  his  face.  All  was  calm  and  immovable,  all 
traces  of  emotion  had  passed  away  from  the  stern  and  commanding1  features, 
?iV«T  ilie  waves  rolling  from  the  rock. 

He  whispered  a  few  brief  words  to  his  aids-de-camp,  and  then  raising  his 
iVm  proudly  in  the  stirrups,  he  rode  along  the  Continental  columns,  while 
with  a  confused  and  half-suppressed  murmuring  sound,  the  RETREAI  OT 
GERMANTOWN  commenced. 


tfte  Jfiftft. 


THE    LAST   SHOT   OF    THE    BATTLE. 

"  Look  forth  upon  the  scene  of  fight,  comrade." 

"  The  moon  is  up  in  the  heavens— her  beams  glimmer  on  the  cold  faces  of  the  deiid 
Over  dead  carcase  and  over  fallen  banner,  in  the  midst  of  the  lawn,  arises  one  fell 
and  ghastly  form,  towering  in  the  moonbeams — " 

"  The  form,  comrade  ?" 

"  It  is  the  form  of  Death,  brooding  and  chuckling  over  the  carnage  of  the  field  ;  hs 
shakes  his  arms  of  bone  aloft,  his  skeleton  hands  wave  in  the  moonlight,  he  holds 

HIGH  FESTIVAL  OVER  THE  BODIES  OF  THE  DEAD." MSS.  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

I.— THE    SOLDIER    AND   HIS    BURDEN. 

A  PAUSE  in  the  din  of  battle  ! 

The  denizens  of  Mount  Airy  and  Chesnut  Hill  came  crowding  to  th»eir 
doors  and  windows  ;  the  hilly  street  was  occupied  by  anxious  groups  of 
people,  who  conversed  in  low  and  whispered  tones,  with  hurried  gestures 
and  looks  of  surprise  and  fear.  Yonder  group  who  stand  clustered  in  the 
roadside  ! 

A  grey  haired  man  with  his  ear  inclined  intently  toward  Germantown, 
his  hands  outspread,  and  his  trembling  form  bent  with  age.  The  maiden, 
fair  cheeked,  red  lipped,  and  blooming,  clad  in  the  peasant  costume,  the 
tight  boddice,  the  linsey  skirt,  the  light  'kerchief  thrown  over  the  bosom. 
Her  ear  is  also  inclined  toward  Germantown,  and  her  small  hands  are  in 
voluntarily  crossed  over  her  bosom,  that  heaves  and  throbs  into  view. 

The  matron,  calm,  self  possessed,  and  placid,  little  children  clinging  to 
the  skirt  of  her  dress,  her  wifely  cnp  flung  carelessly  on  her  head,  with 
hair  slightly  touched  with  grey,  while  the  sleeping  babe  nestles  in  her 
bosom. 

The  boy,  with  the  light  flaxen  hair,  the  ruddy  cheiks,  th«  merry  blue 
eye  !  He  stands  silent  and  motionlesi — he  also  listens  ' 


66  THE    BATTLE    OF   GERMANTOWJS. 

You  stand  upon  the  height  of  Mount  Airy,  it  is  wearing  towards  noon, 
vet  gaze  around  you. 

Above  the  mist  is  rising.  Here  and  there  an  occasional  sun  gleam  lights 
the  rolling  clouds  of  mist,  but  the  atmosphere  wears  a  dull  leaden  hue,  and 
the  vast  horizon  a  look  of  solemnity  and  gloom. 

Beneath  and  around  sweep  field  and  plain,  buckwheat  field,  and  sombre 
woods,  luxuriant  orchards  and  fertile  vallies,  all  seen  in  the  intervals  of  the 
white  columns  of  the  uprising  mist. 

The  group  clustered  along  the  roadside  of  Mount  Airy  are  still  and  silent. 
Each  heart  is  full,  every  ear  absorbed  in  the  effort  of  catching  the  slightes 
sound  from  Germantown. 

There  is  a  strange  silence  upon  the  air.  A  moment  ago,  and  far  off 
shouts  broke  on  the  ear,  mingled  with  the  thunder  of  cannon  and  the 
shrieks  of  musquetry,  the  earth  seemed  to  tremble,  and  far  around  the  wide 
horizon  was  agitated  by  a  thousand  echoes. 

Now  the  scene  is  still  as  midnight.  Not  a  sound,  not  a  shout,  not  a  dis 
tant  hurrah.  The  anxiety  of  the  group  upon  the  hill  becomes  absorbing 
and  painful.  Looks  of  wonder  at  the  sudden  pause  in  the  battle,  flit  from 
face  to  face,  and  then  low  whispers  are  heard,  and  then  comes  another  mo 
ment  of  fearful  suspense. 

It  is  followed  by  a  wild  rushing  sound  to  the  south,  like  the  shrieks  of 
the  ocean  waves,  as  they  fill  the  hold  of  the  foundering  ship,  while  it  sinks 
fir  in  the  loneliness  of  the  seas. 

Then  a  pause,  and  again  that  unknown  sound,  and  then  the  tramp  of  ten 
thousand  footsteps,  mingled  with  a  wild  and  indistinct  murmur. — Tramp, 
tramp,  tramp,  the  air  is  filled  with  the  sound,  and  then  distinct  roices  break 
upon  the  air,  and  the  clatter  of  arms  is  borne  on  the  breeze. 

The  boy  turns  to  his  mother,  and  asks  her  who  has  gained  the  day  ? 
Every  heart  feels  vividly  that  the  battle  is  now  over,  that  the  account  of 
blood  is  near  its  close,  that  the  appeal  to  the  God  of  battles  has  been  made. 

The  mother  turns  her  tearful  eyes  to  the  south — she  cannot  answer  the 
question.  The  old  man,  awaking  from  a  reverie,  turns  suddenly  to  the 
maid*  n,  and  clasps  her  arm  with  his  trembling  hands.  His  lips  move,  but 
his  tongue  is  unable  to  syllable  a  sound.  His  suspense  is  fearful.  He 
flings  a  trembling  hand  southward,  and  speaks  his  question  with  the  gesture 
of  age. 

The  battle,  the  battle,  how  goes  the  battle  ? 

And  as  he  makes  the  gesture,  the  figure  of  a  soldier  in  seen  rusKing  from 
K*  irist  in  the  valley  below,  he  comes  speeding  round  the  bend  of  the  road, 
n»  Ascends  the  hill,  but  his  steps  totter,  and  he  staggers  to  and  frt>  like  a 
drunken  man. 

He  bears  a  burden  on  his  shoulders — is  it  the  plunder  of  the  fight,  is  it 
spoil  gathered  from  the  ranks  of  the  dead  ? 

No — no.     He  bears  an  aged  man  on  his  shoulders,  he  grasps  the 


THE    SOLDIER    AND  HIS   BURDEN.  57 

form  with  his  trembling  arms,  and  with  an  unsteady  step  nears  the  group 
on  the  hill  top. 

The  old  man's  grey  hairs  are  waving  in  the  breeze,  and  his  extended 
hand  grasps  a  broken  bayonet,  which  he  raises  on  high  with  a  maniac 
gesture. 

The  soldier  and  the  veteran  he  bears  upon  his  shoulders,  are  clad  in  the 
blue  hunting  shirt,  torn  and  tattered  and  stained  with  blood,  it  is  true,  but 
still  yoi1  can  recognize  the  uniform  of  the  Revolution. 

The  tottering  soldier  nears  the  group,  he  lays  the  aged  veteran  down  bv 
the  roadside,  and  then  looks  around  with  a  ghastly  face  and  a  rollino-  eve. 
There  is  blood  dripping  from  his  attire,  his  face  is  begrimed  with  powder, 
and  spotted  with  crimson  drops.  He  glances  wildly  around,  and  then 
kneeling-  on  the  sod  he  takes  the  hands  of  the  aged  man  in  his  own,  and 
raises  his  head  upon  his  knee. 

The  battle,  the  battle,  how  goes  the  battle  ? 

The  group  cluster  round  as  they  shriek  the  question. 

The  young  Continental  makes  no  reply,  but  gazing  upon  the  face  of  the 
dying  veteran,  wipes  the  beaded  drops  of  blood  from  his  forehead. 

"  Comrade,"  shrieks  the  veteran,  "  raise  me  on  my  feet,  and  wine  the 
blood  from  my  eyes.  I  would  see  him  once  again  !" 

He  is  raised  upon  his  feet,  the  blood  is  wiped  from  his  eyes. 

"  I  see — I  see — it  is  he — it  is  Washington  !  Yonder — yonder — [  sre 
his  sword — and  Antony  Wayne, — raise  me  higher,  comrade, — all  is  getting 
dark — I  would  see — Mad  Antony  !" 

Did  you  ever  see  a  picture  that  made  your  heart  throb,  and  your  eyes 
grow  blind  with  tears  ? 

Here  is  one. 

The  roadside,  the  group  clustered  in  front  of  Allen's  house,  which  rises 
massive  and  solemn  in  the  background.  The  young  soldier,  all  weak  and 
tumbling  from  loss  of  blood,  raising  the  grey  haired  veteran  in  his  arms, 
placing  his  face  toward  Germantown,  while  the  wrinkled  features  light  up 
with  a  sudden  gleam,  and  waving  his  broken  bayonet  before  his  eyes,  he 
looks  toward  the  scene  of  the  late  fight. 

The  bystanders,  spectators  of  this  scene.  The  matron  gazing  anxiously 
upon  the  old  man's  face,  her  eyes  swimming  in  tears,  the  ruddy  cheeked 
boy  holding  one  hand  of  the  dying  veteran,  the  youthful  maiden,  all  blossom 
and  innocence,  standing  slightly  apart,  with  the  ancient  man  in  peasant's 
attire,  gazing  vacantly  around  as  he  grasps  her  arm. 

'*  Lift  me,  comrade — higher,  higher —  I  see  him — I  s-ec  Mad  Antony  ! 
Wipe  the  blood  from  my  eyes,  comrade,  for  it  darkens  my  sight — it  is  da  * 
it  is  dark  !" 

And  the  young  soldier  held  in  his  arms  a  lifeless  corse.  The  old  veteran 
was  dead.  He  had  fought  his  last  fight,  fired  his  hst  shot,  shouted  the 


68  THE   BATTLE    OF   GERMANTOWN. 

name  of  Mad  Antony  for  the  last  time,  and  yet  his  withered  hand  cle^cb*^ 
with  the  tightness  of  death,  the  broken  bayonet. 

The  battle,  the  battle,  how  goes  the  battle  ? 

As  the  thrilling  question  again  rung  in  his  ears,  the  young  Contine^V 
turned  to  the  group,  smiled  ghastily  and  then  flung  his  wounded  arm  to  the 
touth. 

"7y0s£.'"  he  shrieked,  and  rushed  on  his  way  like  one  bereft  of  his 
senses.  He  had  not  gone  ten  steps,  when  he  bit  the  dust  of  the  roadside 
and  lay  extended  in  the  face  of  day  a  lifeless  corse. 

The  eyes  of  the  group  were  now  fixed  upon  the  valley  below. 

II.— HOW  THE  LEGIONS  CAME  BACK  FROM  THE  BATTLE. 

TRAMP,  tramp,  echoed  the  sound  of  hoofs,  and  then  a  steed,  caparisoned 
in  battle  array,  came  sweeping  up  the  hill,  with  his  wounded  rider  hanging 
helpless  and  faint  by  the  saddle-bow. — Then  came  another  steed,  speeding 
up  the  hill,  with  bloodshot  eye  and  quivering  nostril,  while  his  rider  fell 
dying  to  the  earth,  shouting  his  wild  hurrah  as  he  fell. 

Then  came  baggage  wagons,  then  bodies  of  flying  troops  in  continental 
attire,  turned  to  the  bend  of  the  road  in  the  valley  below,  and  like  a  flash  the 
hillside  of  Mount  Airy  was  all  alive  with  disordered  masses  of  armed  men, 
rushing  onward  with  hurried  steps  and  broken  arms. 

Another  moment !  The  whole  array  of  the  continental  army  comes 
sweeping  round  the  bend  of  the  road,  file  after  file,  rank  after  rank,  and 
now,  a  column  breaks  into  sight. 

Alone  the  whole  column,  no  vision  meets  the  eyes  of  the  group,  but  the 
spectacle  of  broken  arms,  tarnished  array,  men  wearied  with  toil  and  thirst, 
fainting  with  wounds,  and  tottering  with  the  loss  of  blood. 

On  and  on,  along  the  ascent  of  the  hill  they  rush,  some  looking  hastily 
around  with  their  pallid  faces  stained  with  blood,  some  holding  their  shat 
tered  arms  high  overhead,  others  aiding  their  wounded  comrades  as  they 
hurry  on  in  the  current  of  the  retreat,  while  waving  in  the  air,  the  blue 
banner  of  the  continental  host,  with  its  array  of  thirteen  stars,  droops 
heavily  from  the  flagstaff",  as  its  torn  folds  come  sweeping  into  light. 

And  from  file  to  file,  with  a  wild  movement  and  a  reckless  air,  rode  a  tall 
and  muscular  soldier,  clad  in  the  uniform  of  a  general  officer,  his  sword 
waving  aloft,  and  his  voice  heard  above  the  hurry  and  confusion  of  the 
retreat — 

"Turn,  comrades,  turn,  and  face  the  Britisher — turn,  and  the  day  is  ours  !" 

Mad  Anthony  cried  in  vain  !  The  panic  had  gone  like  a  lightning  flash 
through  the  army,  and  every  man  hurried  on,  without  a  thought,  save  the 
thought  of  retreat ;  without  a  motion,  save  the  escape  from  the  fatal  field 
of  Chew's  House. 

Then  came  Pulaski  and  his  veterans,  their  costumes  of  white  extending 
aiong  the  road,  in  glaring  relief  against  the  background  of  blue-shirted  con- 


CAPTAIN    LEE.  69 

tmentals ;  then  came  the  columns  of  Sullivan,  the  divsion  of  Greenp,  and 
then  huddled  together  in  a  confused  crowd,  came  the  disordered  bands  of 
the  army,  who  had  broken  their  ranks,  and  were  marching  beside  the  bag 
gage  wains  loaded  to  the  very  sides  with  wounded  and  dying. 

It  was  a  sad  and  ghastly  spectacle  to  see  that  train  of  death-cars,  rolling 
heavily  on,  with  the  carcases  of  the  wounded  hanging  over  their  sides,  wit* 
broken  arms  and  limbs  protruding  from  their  confines,  with  pallid  faces  up 
turned  to  the  sky,  while  amid  the  hurry  and  motion  of  the  retreat,  piteous 
moans,  fierce  cries,  and  convulsive  death-shrieks  broke  terribly  on  the  air. 

Yon  gallant  officer  leaning  from  his  steed,  yon  gallant  officer,  with  the 
bared  forehead,  the  disordered  dress,  the  ruffle  spotted  with  blood,  the  coat 
torn  by  sword  thrusts,  and  dripping  with  the  crimson  current  flowing  from 
the  heart,  while  an  aid-de-camp  riding  by  his  side  supports  his  fainting  form 
on  his  steed,  urging  the  noble  animal  forward  in  the  path  of  the  retreat. 

It  is  the  brave  General  Nash.  He  has  fought  his  last  fight,  led  his  gallant 
North  Carolinians  on  to  the  field  for  the  last  time,  his  heart  is  fluttering 
with  the  trembling  pulsation  of  death,  and  his  eyes  swimming  in  the  dim 
ness  of  coming  dissolution. 

In  the  rear,  casting  fierce  glances  toward  Germantown,  rides  the  tall  form 
of  Washington,  with  Pickering  and  Hamilton  and  Marshall,  clustering  round 
their  chieftain,  while  the  sound  of  the  retreating  legions  is  heard  far  in  the 
distance,  along  the  heights  of  Chesnut  Hill. 

Washington  reaches  the  summit  of  Mount  Airy,  he  beholds  his  gallant 
though  unfortunate  army  sweeping  far  ahead,  he  reins  his  steed  for  a  mo 
ment  on  the  height  of  the  mount,  and  looks  toward  the  field  of  German- 
town  ! 

One  long  look  toward  the  scene  of  the  hard  fought  fight,  one  quick  and 
fearful  memory  of  the  unburied  dead,  one  half-smothered  exclamation  of 
anguish,  and  the  chieftain's  steed  springs  forward,  and  thus  progresses  the 
retreat  of  Germantown. 

In  the  town  the  scene  is  wild  and  varied.  The  mist  has  not  yet  arisen, 
the  startled  inhabitants  have  not  crept  from  their  places  of  concealment,  and 
through  the  village  ride  scattered  bands  and  regiments  of  the  British  army. 
Here  a  party  of  gaudily-clad  German  troopers  of  Walbeck  break  on  your 
eye,  yonder  the  solemn  and  ponderous  Hessian  in  his  heavy  accoutrements 
crosses  your  path,  here  a  company  of  plaid-kilted  Highlanders  came  march 
ing  on,  with  claymore  and  bagpipe,  and  yonder,  far  in  the  distance  sweep 
the  troopers  of  Anspack,  in  their  costume  of  midnight  darkness,  relieved  by 
ornaments  of  gold,  with  the  skull  and  cross-bones  engraven  on  each  sable  cap. 


III.— CAPTAIN    LEE. 


IN  the  centre  of  the  village  extended  a  level  piece  of  ground,  surrounded 
by  dwelling  houses,  stretching  from  the  eastern  side  of  the  road,  with  the 
market-house,  a  massive  and  picturesque  structure,  arising  on  one  side. 


70  THE    BATTLE    OF   GERMANTOWN. 

while  the  German  Reformed  Church,  with  its  venerable  front  and  steeple, 
arose  on  the  other. 

The  gallant  Captain  Lee,  of  the  Partizan  Rangers,  had  penetrated  thus 
far  into  the  town,  in  common  with  many  other  companies  of  the  army,  but 
soon  all  others  retreated,  and  he  was  left  alone  in  the  heart  of  the  British 
army,  while  the  continentals  were  retreating  over  Mount  Airy  and  Chesnut 
Hill. 

Lee  had  pursued  a  Hanoverian  troop  as  far  as  the  market  house,  when 
he  suddenly  perceived  the  red-coated  soldiers  of  Cornwallis  breaking  from 
the  gloom  of  the  mist  on  the  south,  while  a  body  of  troopers  came  rushing 
from  the  school  house  lane  on  one  side,  and  another  corps  came  thundering 
from  the  church  lane  on  the  opposite  side. 

Lee  was  surrounded.  The  sable-coated  troopers  whom  he  had  been  pur 
suing,  now  turned  on  their  pursuers,  and  escape  seemed  impossible.  The 
brave  Partizan  turned  to  his  men.  Each  swarthy  face  gleamed  with 
delight — each  sunburnt  hand  flung  aloft  the  battle-dented  sword.  The  con 
fusion  and  havoc  of  the  day  had  left  the  Partizan  but  forty  troopers,  but 
every  manly  form  was  marked  by  wide  shoulders,  muscular  chest,  and  lofty 
bearing,  and  their  uniform  of  green,  their  caps  of  fur,  with  bucktail  plume, 
gave  a  striking  and  effective  appearance  to  the  band. 

"  Comrades,  now  for  a  chase  !"  shouted  Lee,  glancing  gaily  over  his  men. 
"  Let  us  give  these  scare-crow  hirelings  a  chase  !  Up  the  Germantown 
road,  advance,  boys — forward  !" 

And  as  they  galloped  along  the  Germantown  road,  riding  gallantly  four 
abreast,  in  all  a  warrior's  port  and  pride,  the  Hanoverians,  now  two  hundred 
strong,  came  thundering  in  their  rear,  each  dark-coated  trooper  leaning  over 
th3  neck  of  his  steed,  with  sword  upraised,  and  with  fierce  battle-shout 
echoing  from  lip  to  lip. 

Only  twenty  paces  lay  between  the  Rangers  and  their  foes.  The  mo 
notonous  sound  of  the  pattering  hoof,  the  clank  of  the  scabbard  against  the 
soldier's  booted  leg,  the  deep,  hard  breathing  of  the  horses,  urged  by  boot 
and  spur  to  their  utmost  speed,  the  fierce  looks  of  the  Hanoverians,  their 
bending  figures,  their  dress  of  deep  black,  with  relief  of  gold,  the  ponder 
ous  caps,  ornamented  with  the  fearful  insignia  of  skull  and  cross-bones,  the 
Rangers  sweeping  gallantly  in  front,  square  and  compact  in  their  solid 
column,  each  manly  form  in  costume  of  green  and  gold,  disclosed  in  the  light, 
in  all  its  muscular  ability  and  imposing  proportions,  as  they  moved  forward 
with  the  same  quick  impulse,  all  combined,  form  a  scene  of  strange  and 
varying  interest,  peculiar  to  those  times  of  Revolutionary  peril  and  blood 
shed , 

The  chase  became  exciting.  The  advance  company  of  sable-coated 
troopers  gained  on  Lee's  gallant  band  at  every  step,  and  at  every  step  they 
left  their  comrades  further  in  the  rear. 

Lee's  men  spurred  their  steeds  merrily  forward,  ringing  their  Koistprou* 


SUNSET    UPON    THE    BATTLE   FIELD.  ?j 

shouts  tauntingly  upon  the  air,  while  their  exasperated  foes  replied  with 
curses  and  execrations. 

And  all  along  through  the  streets  of  Germantown  lay  the  scene  of  this 
exciting  chase,  the  clatter  of  the  horses'  hoofs  awake  the  echoes  of  the  an 
cient  houses,  bringing  the  frightened  denizens  suddenly  to  the  doors  and  win 
dows,  and  the  pursuers  and  pursued  began  to  near  the  hill  of  the  Mennon- 
ist  graveyard,  while  the  peril  of  Lee  became  more  imminent  and  apparent. 
The  Hanoverians  were  at  the  horses'  heels  of  the  Rangers — they  were 
gaining  upon  them  at  every  step  ;  in  a  moment  they  would  be  surrounded 
and  cut  to  pie;^. 

Lee  glanced  over  his  shoulder.  He  saw  his  danger  at  a  glance  ;  they 
were  now  riding  up  the  hill,  the  advance  company  of  the  enemy  were  in 
his  rear,  the  main  division  were  some  hundred  yards  behind.  In  a  moment 
the  quick  word  of  command  rung  from  his  lips,  and  at  the  instant,  as  the 
whole  corps  attained  the  summit  of  the  hill,  his  men  wheeled  suddenly 
round,  faced  the  pursuing  enemy,  and  came  thundering  upon  their  ranks  like 
an  earth-riven  thunderbolt ! 

Another  moment !  and  the  discomfitted  Hanoverians  lay  scattered  and 
bleeding  along  the  roadside  ;  here  a  steed  was  thrown  back  upon  its 
haunches,  crushing  its  rider  ns  it  fell ;  here  wa«  a  ,r^r/er  clinging  with  the 
grasp  of  death  to  his  h  )rse's  neck  ;  yonder  reared  another  horse  without  its 
rider,  and  the  ground  was  littered  with  the  overthrown  and  wounded 
troopers. 

They  swept  over  the  black-coated  troopers  like  a  thunderbolt,  and  in  an 
other  instant  the  gallant  Rangers  wheeled  about,  returning  in  their  charge  of 
terror  with  the  fleetness  of  the  wind,  each  man  sabreing  an  enemy  as  he 
rode,  and  then,  with  a  wild  hurrah,  they  regained  the  summit  of  the  hill. 

Lee  drew  his  trooper's  cap  from  his  head,  his  men  did  the  same,  and  then, 
with  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  main  body  oft  the  enemy  advancing  along  the 
foot  of  the  hill,  the  gallant  Rangers  sent  up  a  wild  hurrah  of  triumph,  wa 
ving  their  caps  above  their  heads,  and  brandishing  their  swords. 

The  enemy  returned  a  yell  of  execration,  but  ere  they  reached  the  sum 
mit  of  the  hill,  Lee's  company  were  some  hundred  yards  ahead,  and  all 
pursuit  was  vain.  The  Rangers  rode  fearlessly  forward,  and,  ere  an  half- 
hour  was  passed,  regained  the  columns  of  the  retreating  army. 

IV.— SUXSET    UPON    THE    BATTLE    FIELD. 

It  was  sunset  upon  the  field  of  battle — solemn  and  quiet  sunset.  The 
rich,  golden  light  fell  over  the  grassy  lawn,  over  the  venerable  fabric  of 
Chew's  house,  and  over  the  trees  scattered  along  the  field,  turning  their 
autumnal  foliage  to  quivering  gold. 

The  scene  was  full  of  the  spirit  of  desolation,  steeped  in  death,  and  crim 
soned  in  blood.  The  green  lawn — with  the  soil  turned  up  by  the  cannon 
wheels,  by  the  tramp  of  war  steeds,  by  the  rush  of  the  foemen — was  au 


72  THE    BATTLE   CF    GERMAN  TOWN. 

heaped  with  ghastly  piles  of  dead,  whose  cold  upturned  faces  shore  witb  9 
terrible  lustre  in  the  last  beams  of  the  declmino-  sun. 

B 

There  were  senseless  carcasses,  with  the  arms  rent  from  the  shattered 
body,  with  the  eyes  scooped  from  the  hollow  sockets,  with  foreheads  severed 
by  the  sword  thrust,  with  hair  dabbled  in  blood,  with  sunken  jaws  fallen  on 
the  gory  chest ;  there  was  all  the  horror,  all  the  bloodshed,  all  the  butchery 
of  war,  without  a  single  gleam  of  its  romance  or  chivalry. 

Here  a  plaid-kilted  Highlander,  a  dark -coated  Hanoverian,  were  huddled 
together  in  the  ghastliness  of  sudden  death  ;  each  with  that  fearful  red  wound 
denting  the  forehead,  each  with  that  same  repulsive  expression  of  convulsive 
pain,  while  their  unclosed  eyes,  cold,  dead*  and  lustreless,  glared  on  the  blue 
heavens  with  the  glassy  look  of  death. 

Yonder,  at  the  foot  of  a  giant  elm,  an  old  Continental,  sunk  down  in  the 
grasp  of  death.  His  head  is  sunken  on  his  breast,  his  white  hair  all  blood- 
bedabbled,  his  blue  hunting  shirt  spotted  with  clotted  drops  of  purple.  The 
sunburnt  hand  extended,  grasps  the  unfailing  rifle — the  old  warrior  is  merrv 
even  in  death,  for  his  lip  wears  a  cold  and  unmoving  smile. 

A  little  farther  on  a  peasant  boy  bites  the  sod,  with  his  sunburnt  face 
half  buried  in  the  blood-soddened  earth,  his  rustic  attire  of  linsey  tinted  by 
the  last  beams  of  the  declining  sun ;  one  arm  convulsively  gathered  under 
his  head,  the  long  brown  hair  all  stiffened  with  blood,  while  tl^e  other  grasps 
the  well-used  fowling  piece,  with  which  he  rushed  to  the  field,  fought  bravely, 
and  died  like  a  hero.  The  fowling  piece  is  with  him  in  death ;  the  fowling 
piece — companion  of  many  a  boyish  ramble  beside  the  Wissahikon,  many 
a  hunting  excursion  on  the  wild  and  dreamy  hills  that  frown  around  that 
rivulet — is  now  beside  him,  but  the  hand  that  encloses  its  stock  is  colder 
than  the  iron  of  its  rusted  tube. 

Let  us  pass  over  the  field,  with  a  soft  and  solemn  footstep,  for  our  path 
is  yet  stamped  with  the  tread  of  death  ;  the  ghosts  of  the  heroes  are  throng 
ing  in  the  air. 

Chew's  house  is  silent  and  desolate.  The  shattered  windows,  the  broken 
hall  door,  the  splintered  roof,  the  battered  chimneys,  and  the  walls  of  the 
house  stained  with  blood  :  all  are  silent,  yet  terrible  proofs  of  the  havoc  and 
ruin  of  the  fight. 

Silence  is  within  Chew's  house.  No  death-shriek,  no  groan  of  agony, 
no  voice  shrieking  to  the  uplifted  sword  to  spare  and  pity,  breaks  upon  the 
air.  All  is  still  and  solemn,  and  the  eye  of  human  vision  may  not  pierce 
the  gloom  of  the  unknown,  and  behold  the  ghosts  of  the  slain  crowding  be 
fore  the  throne  of  God. 

The  sun  is  setting  over  Chew's  lawn  and  house,  the  soldiers  of  t>« 
British  army  have  deserted  the  place,  and  as  the  last  beams  of  day  quiver 
over  the  field,  death — terrible  and  fearful  death — bro«d«  over  the  scene,  in 
all  its  ghastiliness  and  horror. 


THE    LEGEND    OF    GENERAL   AGNEW    AGAIN.  73 

V  —THE  LEGEND  OF  GENERAL  AONEW    AGAIN. 

ALONG  the  solitary  streets  of  Germantown,  as  the  sun  went  down,  ranjj 
tiie  echo  of  horses'  hoofs,  and  the  form  of  the  rider  of  a  gallant  war  steed 
was  seen,  disclosed  in  the  lasi  beams  of  the  dying  day,  as  he  took  his  way 
along  the  village  road. 

The  horseman  was  tall,  well-formed;  and  muscular  in  proportion ;  his 
hair  was  slightly  touched  with  the  frost  of  age,  and  his  eye  was  wild  and 
wandering  in  its  glance.  The  compressed  lip,  the  hollow  cheek,  the  flash 
ing  eye,  all  told  a  story  of  powerful,  through  suppressed  emotion,  stirring 
the  warrior's  heart  to  bitter  thoughts  and  gloomy  memories. 

It  was  General  Agnew,  of  the  British  army.  He  had  fought  bravely  in 
the  fight  of  Chew's  house,  though  the  presentiment  sat  heavy  on  his  soul ; 
he  had  fought  bravely,  escaped  without  a  wound,  and  now  was  riding  alone, 
along  the  solitary  street,  toward  the  Mennonist  grave-yard. 

There  was  an  expression  on  his  commanding  face  that  it  would  have 
'•nilled  your  heart  to  see.  It  was  an  expression  which  stamped  his  features 
*vith  a  look  of  doom  and  fate,  which  revealed  the  inward  throbbings  of  his 
soul,  as  the  dark  presentiment  of  the  morning,  moved  over  its  shadowy 
depths. 

He  may  have  been  thinking  of  his  home,  away  in  the  fair  valleys  of  Eng 
land — of  the  blooming  daughter,  the  bright-eyed  boy,  or  the  matronly  wife — 
and  then  a  thought  of  the  terrible  wrong  involved  in  the  British  cause  may 
have  crossed  his  soul,  for  the  carnage  of  Chew's  lawn  had  been  most  fear 
ful,  and  it  is  not  well  to  slay  hundreds  of  living  beings  like  ourselves,  for 
the  shadow  of  a  right. 

He  reached  the  point  where  the  road  sweeps  down  the  hill,  in  front  of 
the  grave-yard,  and  as  he  rode  slowly  down  the  ascent,  his  attention  was 
arrested  by  a  singular  spectacle. 

The  head  of  a  man,  grey-bearded  and  white  haired,  appeared  above  the 
grave-yard  wall,  and  a  fierce,  malignant  eye  met  the  gaze  of  General  Agnew. 
It  was  the  strange  old  man  who,  in  the  morning,  had  asked  whether  "  that 
was  General  Grey  ?"  pointing  to  the  person  of  Agnew  as  he  spoke,  and 
being  answered,  by  mistake  or  design,  in  the  affirmative,  fired  a  rifle  at  the 
officer  from  the  shelter  of  the  wall. 

No  sooner  had  the  wild  face  rose  above  the  wall  than  it  suddenly  disap 
peared,  and,  scarce  noting  the  circumstance,  the  General  reined  his  steed  for 
a  moment,  on  the  descent  of  the  hill,  and  gazed  toward  the  western  sky. 
where  the  setting  sun  was  sinking  behind  a  rainbow  hued  pile  of  clouds,  all 
brilliant  with  a  thousand  contrasted  lights. 

The  last  beams  of  the  sun  trembled  over  the  high  forehead  of  General 
Agnew,  as,  with  his  back  turned  to  the  grave-yard  wall,  he  gazed  upon  the 
piospect,  and  nis  eye  lit  up  with  a  sudden  brilliancy,  when  tiio  quick 


74  THE    BATTLE    OF    GERMANTOWN 

and  piercing  report  of  a  rifle  broke  on  the  air,  and  echoed  around  the 
scene. 

A  small  cloud  of  light  blue  smoke  wound  upward  from  the  grave-yard 
wall,  a  ghastly  smile  overspread  the  face  of  Agnew,  he  looked  wildly  round 
for  a  single  instant,  and  then  fell  heavily  to  the  dust  of  the  road-side,  a — 
lifeless  corse. 

His  gallant  steed  of  ebon  darkness  of  skin,  lowered  his  proud  crest,  and 
thrust  his  nostrils  in  his  master's  Face,  his  large  eyes  dilating,  as  he  snuffed 
the  scent  of  blood  upon  the  air;  and  at  the  very  moment  that  same  wild 
and  ghastly  face  appeared  once  more  above  the  stones  of  the  grave-yard 
wall,  and  a  shriek  of  triumph,  wilder  and  ghastlier  than  the  face,  arose 
shrieking  above  the  graves. 

That  rifle  shot,  pealing  from  the  grave-yard  wall,  was  the  LAST  SHOT  of 
the  battle-day  of  Germantown  ;  and  that  corse  flung  along  the  roadside,  with 
those  cold  eyes  glaring  on  the  blue  sunset  sky,  with  the  death-wound  near 
the  heart,  was  the  LAST  DEAD  MAN  of  that  day  of  horror. 

As  the  sun  went  down,  the  dark  horse  lowered  his  head,  and  with  quiver* 
ing  nostrils,  inhaled  the  last  breath  of  his  dying  master. 


ttte 


THE    FUNERAL   OF    THE    DEAD. 

"Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the  Lord, — they  rest  from  their  labors,  wJ 
their  works  do  follow  them." 

I.— THE   ANCIENT    CHURCH. 

IN  the  township  of  Towamensing,  some  twenty-six  miles  from  Philadel 
phia,  from  the  green  sward  of  a  quiet  grave-yard,  arises  the  venerable  walls 
of  an  ancient  church,  under  whose  peaceful  roof  worship  the  believers  in 
the  Mennonist  faith,  as  their  fathers  worshipped  before  them. 

The  grave-yard,  with  its  mounds  of  green  sod,  is  encircled  by  a  massive 
wall  of  stone,  overshadowed  by  a  grove  of  primitive  oaks,  whose  giant 
trunks  and  gnarled  branches,  as  they  tower  in  the  blue  summer  sky,  seem 
to  share  in  the  sacred  stillness  and  ancient  grandeur  which  rests  like  a  holy 
speH  upon  the  temple  and  the  hamlet  of  the  dead. 

Come  back  with  me,  reader,  once  more  come  back  to  the  ancient  revolu 
tionary  time.  Come  back  to  the  solemnity  and  gloom  of  the  funeral  of  the 
dead  :  and  in  the  quiet  grave-yard  we  will  behold  the  scene. 


THE    ANCIENT   CHURCH.  75 

Bands  of  armed  men  throng  the  place  of  graves ;  on  every  side  you  behold 
igures  of  stout  men,  clad  in  the  uniform  of  war  ;  on  every  side  you  behold 
stern  and  scarred  visages,  and  all  along  the  green  sward,  with  its  encircling 
grove  of  oaks,  the  pomp  of  banners  wave  flauntingly  in  the  evening  air,  but 
no  glittering  bayonet  gleams  in  the  light  of  the  declining  day.  The  banners 
are  heavy  with  folds  of  crape,  the  bayonets  are  unfixed  from  eacii  rnusquet, 
and  every  soldier  carries  his  arms  reversed. 

Near  the  centre  of  the  ground,  hard  by  the  roadside,  are  dug  four  graves, 
the  upturned  earth  forming  a  mound  beside  each  grave,  and  the  sunbeams 
shine  upon  four  coffins,  hewn  out  of  rough  pine  wood,  and  laid  upon  trus- 
sels,  with  the  faces  of  the  dead  cold  and  colorless,  tinted  with  a  ghastly 
gleam  of  the  golden  sunlight. 

Around  the  graves  are  grouped  the  chieftians  of  the  American  army,  each 
manly  brow  uncovered,  each  manly  arm  wearing  the  solemn  scarf  of  crape, 
while  an  expression  of  deep  and  overwhelming  grief  is  stamped  upon  the 
lines  of  each  expressive  face. 

Washington  stands  near  the  coffins  :  his  eyes  are  downcast,  and  his  lip 
is  compressed.  Wayne  is  by  his  side,  his  bluff'  countenance  marked  by 
infeigned  sorrow ;  and  there  stands  Greene  and  Sullivan,  and  Maxwell  and 
Armstrong,  clustered  in  the  same  group  with  Stirling  and  Forman,  with 
Small  wood  and  Knox.  Standing  near  the  coffin's  head,  a  tall  and  imposing 
form,  clad  in  a  white  hued  uniform,  is  disclosed  in  the  full  light  of  the  sun 
beams.  The  face,  with  the  whiskered  lip  and  the  eagle  eye,  wears  the 
same  expression  of  sorrow  that  you  behold  on  the  faces  of  all  around.  It 
is  the  Count  Pulaski. 

These  are  the  pall-bearers  of  the  dead. 

And  in  the  rear  of  this  imposing  group  sweep  the  columns  of  the  Amer 
ican  army,  each  officer  with  his  sword  reversed,  each  musquet  also  reversed, 
while  all  around  is  sad  and  still 

A  grey-haired  man,  tall  and  imposing  in  stature,  advances  from  the  group 
of  pall-bearers.  He  is  clad  in  the  robes  of  the  minister  of  heaven,  his  face 
is  marked  by  lines  of  care  and  thought,  and  his  calm  eye  is  expressive  of  a 
mind  at  peace  with  God  and  man.  He  stands  disclosed  in  the  full  glow  of 
the  sunbeams,  and  while  his  long  grey  hairs  wave  in  the  evening  air,  IIP 
gazes  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead. 

The  first  corse,  resting  in  the  pine  coffin,  with  the  banner  of  blue  and 
stars  sweeping  over  its  rough  surface,  and  bearing  upon  its  folds  the  sword 
and  chapeau  of  a  general  officer,  is  the  corse  of  General  Nash.  The  noble 
features  are  white  as  marble,  the  eyes  are  closed,  and  the  lip  wears  the 
smile  of  death. 

The  next  corse,  with  the  sword  and  chapeau  of  the  commanding  officei 
of  a  regiment,  is  the  corse  of  the  brave  Colonel  Boyd. 

Then  comes  the  corse  of  Major  White,  handsome  and  dignified  even  iu 


76  THE    BATTLE    OF    GERMANTOWN. 

death  The  finely  chisseled  features,  the  arched  brows,  the  Roman  nose 
ana  compressed  lip,  look  like  the  marble  of  a  statue. 

The  last  corse,  the  corse  of  a  young  man,  with  a  lieutenant  s  sword  and 
cap  placed  on  the  coffin,  is  all  that  remains  of  the  gallant  Virginian,  wlio 
bore  the  flag  of  truce  to  Chew's  house,  and  was  shot  down  in  the  act. 
Lieutenant  Smith  rests  in  death,  and  the  blood-stained  flag  of  truce  is  placed 
over  his  heart. 

The  venerable  minister  advances,  he  gazes  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead, 
his  clear  and  solemn  voice  breaks  out  in  tones  of  impassioned  eloquence 
in  this. 

II.— FUNERAL  SERMON  OVER  THE  DEAD.* 

General  Nash,  Colonel  Boyd,  Major  White,  and  Lieutenant  Smith  :  buried  in  Town- 
mensing  Mennonist  Grave-yard,  the  day  after  the  Battle  of  Germanlown. 

"  Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the  Lord, — they  rest  from  their 
labors,  and  their  works  do  follow  them." 

Soldiers  and  Countrymen : — Our  brethren  lie  before  us  in  all  the  solem 
nity  of  death.  Their  eyes  are  closed,  their  lips  are  voiceless  ;  life,  with  its 
hurry  and  turmoil,  its  hopes  and  its  fears,  with  them  is  over  forever.  They 
have  passed  from  among  us,  amid  the  smoke  and  glare  of  battle  they  passetf 
away  ;  and  now,  in  this  solemn  grove,  amid  the  silence  and  quiet  of  the 
evening  hour,  we  have  assembled  to  celebrate  their  funeral  obsequies. 

Brethren,  look  well  upon  the  corses  of  the  dead,  mark  the  eyes  hollowed 
by  decay,  the  cheeks  sunken,  and  the  lips  livid  with  the  touch  of  death: 
look  upon  these  forms,  but  one  short  day  ago  moving  and  throbbing  with 
the  warm  blood  of  life,  and  now  cold,  clammy,  dead,  senseless  remains  of 
clay. 

But  this  is  not  all,  brethren  ;  for  as  we  look  upon  these  corses,  the  sol 
emn  words  of  the  book  break  on  our  ear,  through  the  silence  of  the  even 
ing  air : 

Blessed  are  the  dead  that  die  in  the  Lord,  for  they  rest  from  their  la 
bors,  and  their  works  do  follow  them. 

For  they  did  die  in  the  Lord,  my  brethren.  Fighting  in  the  holiest  cause, 
fighting  against  wrong,  and  might,  and  violence,  the  brave  Nash  rode  into 
the  ranks  of  battle,  and  while  the  bullets  of  the  hirelings  whistled  around 


*  NOTE.  The  author  deems  it  necessary  to  state,  once  for  all,  that  all  the  legends 
given  in  this  chronicle,  are  derived  from  substantial  fact  or  oral  tradition.  The  legend 
of  the  Debauch  of  Death-  the  old  Quaker — the  House  on  the  Wissahikon — the  escape 
»f  Washington — the  presentiment  and  death  of  General  Agnew — the  feat  of  Captain 
Lee — as  well  as  all  other  incidents  are  derived  from  oral  tradition.  In  other  points, 
the  history  of  the  Battle  is  followed  as  laid  down  by  Marshall  and  his  contemporaries. 
There  is  some  doubt  concerning  the  name  of  the  preacher  who  delivered  the  funeral 
sermon.  But  with  regard  to  the  funeral  ceremonies  at  the  Mennonist  church  at  Toy- 
amonsing,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  General  Nash  and  his  companions  in  death,  were 
iHiried  with  the  horn  rs  of  war,  in  presence  of  the  whole  army  the  day  after  the  battle. 


FUNERAL  SERMON  OVER  THE  DEAD.  77 

him,  while  all  was  terror  and  gloom,  he  fell  at  the  head  of  his  men,  bravely 
Cashing  his  sword  for  his  fatherland.  * 

So  fell  White,  and  so  fell  Boyd  ;  you  have  all  heard  how  Lieutenant 
&mith  met  his  death.  You  have  heard  how  he  went  forth  on  the  battle 
morn  with  the  flag  of  truce  in  his  nanc  You  have  heard  how  he  ap 
proached  the  fatal  mansion  on  thr  battle-held  .  vou  have  heard  how  these 
merciless  men  pointed  their  musquets  at  his  hean,  and  he  fell,  bathing  the 
flag  of  truce  with  the  warm  blood  ol  his  heart. 

They  fell,  but  their  blood  shall  not  fall  unheeded.  »Veoige  of  Bruns 
wick,  may  augur  success  to  his  cause  from  the  result  of  'tus  fight,  but  the 
weak  and  mistaken  man  shall  soon  know  his  delusion  false. 

From  every  drop  of  patriot  blood  sinking  in  the  soci  of  Germantown,  a 
hero  shall  arise  !  From  the  darkness  and  death  of  that  terrible  fight,  I  see 
the  angel  of  our  country's  freedom  springing  into  birth ;  beyond  the  clouds 
and  smoke  of  battle,  I  behold  he  jawning  of  a  brighter  and  more  glorious 
day. 

They  rest  from  their  labors.  From  the  toilsome  labor  of  the  night  march, 
from  the  fierce  labor  of  the  battle  charge,  from  the  labor  of  bloodshed  and 
death  they  rest. 

They  will  no  more  share  the  stern  joy  of  the  meeting  of  congregated 
armies  ;  no  more  ride  the  steed  to  battle  ;  no  more  feel  their  hearts  throb  at 
the  sound  of  the  trumpet.  All  is  over. 

They  rest  from  their  labors  !  Aye,  in  the  solemn  courts  of  heaven  they 
rest  from  their  labors,  and  the  immortal  great  of  the  past  greet  them  with 
smiles  and  beckonings  of  joy,  their  hearts  are  soothed  by  the  hymnings  of 
angels,  and  the  voice  of  the  Eternal  bids  them  welcome. 

From  the  dead  let  me  turn  to  the  living. 

Let  me  speak  for  a  moment  to  the  men  of  the  gallant  band ;  let  me  tel 
them  that  God  will  fight  for  them  ;  that  though  the  battle  may  be  fierce  and 
bloody,  still  the  sword  of  the  Unknown  will  glisten  on  the  side  of  the  free 
men-brothers  ;  that  though  the  battle  clouds  may  roll  their  shadows  of  gloom 
over  heaps  of  dying  and  dead,  yet  from  those  very  clouds  will  spring  the 
day  of  Freedom,  from  the  very  carnage  of  the  battle-field,  will  bloom  the 
fruits  of  a  peaceful  land. 

Man,  chosen  among  men,  as  the  leader  of  freemen,  I  speak  to  thee !  And 
as  the  prophets  of  old,  standing  on  the  ramparts  of  Israel,  raised  their  hands, 
and  blessed  the  Hebrew  chieftains  as  they  went  forth  to  battle,  so  now  I 
bless  thee,  and  bless  thy  doings  ;  by  the  graves  of  the  slain,  and  by  the 
corses  of  the  patriot  dead,  I  sanctify  thy  arms,  in  the  name  of  that  God  who 
lever  yet  beheld  fearful  wrong  without  sudden  vengeance — in  the  name  of 
'.hat  Redeemer,  whose  mission  was  joy  to  the  caotive,  freedom  to  the  slave, 
.  bless  thee, — WASHINGTON. 

On,  on,  in  thy  career  of  glory  ! 

Not  the  glory  of  bloodshed,  not  the  halo  that  is  born  of  the  phosphores- 


78  THE    BATTLE    OF  GERMANTOV\N. 

cent  light  hovering  around  the  carcasses  of  the  dead,  not  the  empty  fame  of 
human  slaughter.     No — no. 

The  glory  of  a  pure  soul,  actuated  by  one  motive  of  good,  straining  every 
purpose  of  heart  to  accomplish  that  motive  ;  neither  heeding  the  threats  of 
the  merciless  tyrant,  on  the  one  hand,  or  the  calls  of  ambition  on  the  other, 
but  speeding  forward,  with  sure  and  steady  steps,  to  the  goal  of  all  thy 
hopes — the  freedom  of  this  land  of  the  new  world. 

Such  is  thy  glory,  Washington. 

On,  then,  ye  gallant  men,  on,  in  your  career  of  glory.  To  day  all  may 
be  dark,  all  may  be  sad,  all  may  be  steeped  in  gloom.  You  may  be  driven 
from  one  battle-field,  you  may  behold  your  comrades  fall  wounded  and  dying 
in  the  path  of  your  retreat.  Carnage  may  thin  your  ranks,  disease  walk 
through  your  tents,  death  track  your  footsteps. 

But  the  bright  day  will  come  at  last.  The  treasure  of  blood  will  find  its 
recompense,  the  courage,  the  self-denial  and  daring  of  this  time  will  work 
out  the  certain  reward  of  the  country's  freedom. 

Then  behold  the  fruits  of  your  labors. 

A  land  of  mighty  rivers,  colossal  mountains,  a  land  of  luxurious  vallies, 
fertile  plains,  a  land  of  freemen,  peopled  by  happy  multitudes  of  millions, 
whose  temples  echo  with  hosannas  to  God,  whose  oraises  repeat  your 
names,  gallant  survivors  of  the  battle-field  of  Germantown. 

"THEIR  WORKS  DO  FOLLOW  THEM!" 

Yes — yes.  From  the  Eternal  world,  our  departed  friends  shall  look 
do^rFupmrtrre  fruit  "of  their  works.  From  the  Vast  Unseen  they  shall  look 
down  upon  your  banner  of  blue  as  the  sun  gleam  of  victory  glitters  on  its 
stars.  They  shall  behold  the  skeletons  of  the  invader  strewing  our  shores, 
his  banners  trailed  in  the  dust,  his  armies  annihilated,  his  strong  men  over 
thrown,  and  the  temple  of  his  power,  toppled  from  its  strong  foundations. 

They  rest  from  their  labors. 

Oh,  glorious  is  their  resting  place,  oh,  most  glorious  is  their  home !  As 
they  flee  on  spirit- wings  to  their  eternal  abode,  the  ghosts  of  the  mighty- 
head,  come  crowding  to  the  portals  of  the  Unknown,  and  hail  them  welcome 
home  !  Brutus  of  old  is  there,  shaking  his  gory  dagger  aloft,  Hampden  and 
Sidney  are  there,  and  there  are  the  patriot  martyrs  from  all  the  scaffolds  of 
oppressed  Europe,  each  mighty  spirit  sounding  a  welcome  to  the  martyrs 
of  New  World  freedom. 

The  dead  of  Bunker  Hill  are  there,  the  form  of  Warren  is  among  the  first 
in  the  mighty  crowd,  and  there,  raising  their  gory  hands  on  high,  a  band  of 
the  martyred  men  of  Brandywine,  press  forward,  and  hail  their  compeers 
3*  Germantown  a  welcome  home. 

Blessed  are  the  dead  who  die  in  the  Lord. 

Oh  !  thrice  blessed,  oh  !  blessed  on  the  tongues  of  nations,  blessed  in  the 


PRAYER    FOR    THE   DEAD.  79 

hymns  of  little  children,  blessed  in  the  tears  of  woman,  shed  for  their  mar 
tyruorn ;  blessed  in  the  world  beyond,  forever  and  forever  blessed. 

Farewell  to  ye,  mighty  dead,  on  earth  !  The  kind  hands  of  wife  or  child 
were  not  passed  over  your  brows,  when  the  big  drops  of  the  death-dew  an 
nounced  the  approach  of  the  last  enemy  of  man  !  No  blooming  child,  no 
soft-voiced  wife,  no  fair-haired  boy  was  near  ye. 

Alone  ye  died.  Alone  amid  the  ranks  of  battle,  or  ere  the  battle  shout 
had  yet  ceased  to  echo  on  your  ear.  Alone,  with  fever  in  your  brain,  with 
fever  in  your  hearts,  with  maddening  throes  of  pain,  forcing  from  your 
manly  lips  the  involuntary  cry  of  agony,  yet,  with  your  native  land  upper 
most  in  your  thoughts,  ye  died. 

And  now,  brethren,  the  sun  sinking  in  the  west,  warns  me  to  close.  The 
bright  golden  beams  tint  the  tops  of  the  trees,  and  fling  a  shower  of  light 
over  the  roof  of  the  ancient  church.  The  sky  above  arches  calm  and  azure, 
as  though  the  spirits  of  the  dead  smiled  from  yon  clime  upon  our  solemn 
ceremonies.  The  hour  is  still  and  solemn,  and  all  nature  invites  us  to  the 
offering  of  prayer.  Let  us  pray. 

III.— PRAYER  FOR  THE  DEAD. 

Father  of  Heaven,  we  bow  before  thee,  under  the  temple  of  the  clear 
blue  sky  and  within  the  shadow  of  yon  oaken  grove,  we  bow  beside  the 
corses  of  the  dead.  Our  hearts  are  sad,  our  souls  are  awed.  Up  to  thy 
throne  we  send  our  earnest  prayers  for  this,  our  much-afflicted  land.  Turn, 
oh  !  God,  turn  the  burning  sword  from  between  us  and  the  sun  of  thy  coun 
tenance.  Lift  the  shadow  of  death  from  our  land.  And,  as  in  the  olden 
times,  thou  didst  save  the  oppressed,  even  when  the  blood-stained  grasp  of 
wrong  was  at  their  throats,  so  save  thou  us,  now — oh,  most  merciful  God 

And  if  the  voice  of  prayer  is  ever  heard  in  thy  courts,  for  the  spirits  of 
the  dead,  then  let  our  voices  now  plead  with  thee,  for  the  ghosts  of  the 
slain,  as  they  crowd  around  the  portals  of  the  Unseen  world. 

Oh  !  Lord  God,  look  into  our  hearts,  and  there  behold  every  pulse  throb 
bing,  every  vein  filling  with  one  desire,  which  we  now  send  up  to  thee 
with  hands  and  soul  upraised — the  desire  of  freedom  for  this  fair  land. 

Give  us  success  in  this  our  most  holy  cause.  In  the  name  of  the  mar 
tyred  dead  of  the  past,  in  the  name  of  that  shadowy  band,  whose  life-Woof* 
dyes  a  thousand  scaffolds,  give  us  freedom. 

In  the  name  of  Jesus  give  us  peace  !  Make  strong  the  hands  of  thy  ser 
vant  even  George  Washington.  Make  strong  the  hearts  of  his  counsellors, 
stir  them  up  to  greater  deeds  even  than  the  deeds  they  have  already  done, 
let  thy  presence  be  with  our  host,  a  pillar  of  cloud  by  day  and  a  pillar  of 
fire  by  night. 

And  at  last,  when  our  calling  shall  have   been  fulfilled,  when  we  have 


80  THE   BATTLE    OF    GERMANTOWN. 

done  and   suffered  thy  will  here  below,  receive  us   into   the   Res    of  the 
Blessed. 

So  shall  it  be  said  of  us — 

"  Blessed  are  the  dead  which  die  in  the  Lord, — they  rest  from  their  la 
bors,  and  their  works  do  follow  them  !" 

The  last  words  of  the  preacher,  sank  into  the  hearts  of  his  hearers. 
Every  man  felt  awed,  every  soul  was  thrilled. 

The  preacher  made  a  sign  to  the  group  of  war-worn  soldiers  in  attend 
ance  at  the  head  of  the  graves.  The  coffins  were  lowered  in  their  recep 
tacles  of  death.  The  man  of  God  advanced,  and  took  a  handful  of  earth, 
from  one  of  the  uprising  mounds. 

There  was  universal  silence  around  the  graves,  and  thro*  the  grave-yard. 

44  Earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust." 

The  sound  of  the  earth  rattling  on  the  coffin  of  General  Nash,  broke  with 
a  strange  echo  on  the  air. 

Slowly  along  the  sod,  passed  the  minister  of  heaven  speaking  the  solemn 
words  of  the  last  ceremony,  as  he  flung  the  handful  of  earth  upon  each 
coffin. 

A  single  moment  passed,  and  a  file  of  soldiers,  with  upraised  musquets, 
extended  along  the  graves.  The  word  of  command  rang  out  upon  the  air, 
and  the  shot  after  shot,  the  alternating  reports  of  the  musquets,  broke  like 
thunder  over  the  graves  of  the  laurelled  dead. 

The  soldiers  suddenly  swept  aside,  and  in  a  moment,  a  glittering  cannon 
was  wheeled  near  the  graves,  with  the  cannonier  standing  with  the  lighted 
linstock,  by  its  side.  The  subdued  word  of  command  again  was  heard,  the 
earthquake  thunder  of  the  cannon  shook  the  graveyard,  and  like  a  pall  for 
the  mighty  dead,  the  thick  folds  of  smoke,  waved  heavily  above  the  grave. 

Again  did  the  file  of  musquetry  pour  forth  the  fire,  again  did  the  cannons 
send  forth  their  flame  flashing  down  into  the  very  graves  of  the  dead,  while 
the  old  church  walls  gave  back  the  echo. — Again  was  the  ceremony  re 
peated,  ai?d  as  the  thick  folds  of  cannon-smoke  waved  overhead,  the  soldi 
ers  opened  to  the  right  and  left,  and  the  pall-bearers  of  the  dead  advanced. 

They  advanced,  and  one  by  one  looked  into  the  graves  of  the  slain. 

This  was  the  scene  when  Washington  looked  for  the  last  time  into  th* 
grave  of  Nash  and  his  death-mates. 

The  sun  setting  behind  the  grove  of  oaks  threw  a  veil  of  sunshine  over 
the  masses  of  armed  men  thronging  the  grave-yard,  over  the  reversed  arras, 
and  craped  banner  of  blue  and  stars.  The  form  of  Washington,  standing  at 
the  head  of  the  grave,  was  disclosed  in  all  its  majesty  of  proportion,  his  face 
impressed  with  an  expression  of  sorrow,  and  his  right  hand  reversing 
his  craped  sword ;  Wayne — the  gallant,  the  noble,  the  fearless  Wayne — 
stood  at  his  right  shoulder,  and  then  sweeping  in  a  line  along  the  graves, 
extended  the  chieftains  of  the  army,  each  face  stamped  with  grief,  each  right 
arm  holding  the  reversed  sword  :  there  was  the  sagacious  face  of  Greene 


PRAYER    FOR    THE    DEAD.  si 

an 

the  bluff  visage  of  Knox,  the  commanding  features  of  Sulivan.  tn«.  .nanly 
countenances  of  Maxwell,  Stirling,  Forman,  Conway,  and  the  other  officers 
of  the  continental  host.  All  were  grouped  there  beside  the  graves  of  the 
slain,  and  as  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  coffins  sprinkled  with  earth,  a 
low,  solemn  peal  of  music  floated  along  the  air,  and  a  veteran  advancing  to 
the  grave,  flung  to  the  wind  the  broad  banner  of  blue  and  stars,  anti  the  last 
glimpse  of  sun-light  fell  upon  this  solemn  relic  of  the 


Uattir-Dai>  of  Grrmautoton. 


BOOK  SECOND. 

THE  WISSAHIKON. 


(83) 


THE  WISSAHIKON. 


WISSAHIKON  ! 

That  name,  soft  as  the  wind  of  May,  breathing  its  perfume  over  the 
brow  of  the  way-worn  wanderer — melodious  as  a  burst  of  music,  swelling 
from  afar,  over  the  bosom  of  still  waters — sad  and  wild,  as  the  last  groan  of 
a,  dying  warrior,  who  conquering  all  vain  regrets  by  one  strong  impulse  of 
his  passing  soul,  sternly  gives  up  his  life  to  God — Wissahikon  ! 

That  name  speaks  to  our  hearts  with  a  pathos  all  its  own.  Yes,  it 
speaks  to  our  hearts  with  a  strange  and  mingled  meaning,  whether  written 
Wissahickon,  or  Wissahiccon,  or  pronounced  as  it  fell  from  the  lips  of  the 
Indian  maidens  in  the  olden  time,  who  bathed  their  forms  in  its  waters,  and 
adorned  their  raven  hair  with  the  lilies  and  wild  roses  that  grow  in  its  deep 

WOOds WlSSAHIKONE  ! 

That  word  speaks  of  rocks,  piled  up  in  colossal  grandeur,  with  waves 
murmuring  at  their  feet,  and  dark  green  pines  blooming  forever  on  their 
brows. 

That  name  tells  me  of  a  tranquil  stream,  that  flows  from  the  fertile 
meadows  of  White  marsh,  and  then  cleaves  its  way  for  eight  miles,  through 
rocks  of  eternal  granite,  now  reflecting  on  its  waves  the  dark  grey  walls  and 
steep  roof  of  some  forest  hidden  mill,  now  burying  itself  beneath  the 
shadows  of  overhanging  trees,  and  then  comes  laughing  into  the  sun,  like  a 
maiden  smiling  at  the  danger  that  is  past. 

We  will  go  down  to  Wissahikon. 

You  have  been  there ;  some  of  you  in  the  still  summer  afternoon,  when 
the  light  laugh  of  girlhood  rang  through  the  woods — some  of  you  perchance 
in  the  early  dawn,  or  in  the  purple  twilight  when  the  shadows  came  darkly 
over  the  waters. 

But  to  go  down  into  its  glens  at  midnight,  when  silence  like  death  is 
brooding  there  !  Then  the  storm-cloud  gathers  like  a  pall — then,  clinging 
to  yon  awful  cliff  that  yawns  above  the  blackness,  you  hear  the  Thunder 
speak  to  the  still  woods,  and  the  deeps  far  below,  speak  back  again  their 
Thunder.  Then  at  dead  of  night,  you  see  the  red  lightning  flashing  down 
over  the  tall  pines,  down  over  the  dark  waters,  quivering  and  trembling  with 
its  arrows  of  wrath,  far  into  the  shadows  of  the  glen. 

At  last  the  storm-cloud  rolls  back  its  pall.  The  silver  moon  comes 
shining  out,  smiling  from  her  window  in  the  sky.  The  Eagle  too,  lord  en 

(85j 


86  THE   WISSAHIKON. 

the  wild  domain,  starts  from  his  perch,  and  wheels  through  the  deep  azure 
circling  round  the  moon,  bathing  his  pinions  in  her  light  as  he  looks  for  the 
coming  of  his  God,  the  sun. 

Had  you  been  there  at  dead  of  night,  as  I  have  been,  you  would  know 
something  of  the  supernatural  grandeur,  the  awful  beauty  of  the  Wissahi- 
kon  ;  then,  even  though  you  were  an  Atheist,  you  would  have  knelt  down 
and  felt  the  existence  of  a  God. 

The  Wissahikon  wears  a  beauty  all  its  own.  True,  the  Hudson  is  mag 
nificent  with  her  mingled  panorama  of  mountain  and  valley,  tumultuous 
river  and  tranquil  bay.  To  me  she  seems  a  Queen,  who  reposes  in  strange 
majesty,  a  crown  of  snow  upon  her  forehead  of  granite,  the  leaf  of  the  In 
dian  corn,  the  spear  of  wheat,  mingled  in  the  girdle  which  binds  her  waist, 
the  murmur  of  rippling  water  ascending  from  the  valley  beneath  her  feet. 

The  Susquehanna  is  awfully  sublime  ;  a  warrior  who  rushes  from  his 
home  in  the  forest,  hews  his  way  through  primeval  mountains,  and  howls 
in  his  wrath  as  he  hurries  to  the  ocean.  Ever  and  anon,  like  a  Conqueror 
overladened  with  the  spoils  of  battle,  he  scatters  a  green  island  in  his  path, 
or  like  the  same  Conqueror  relenting  from  the  fury  of  the  fight,  smiles  like 
Heaven  in  the  wavelets  of  some  tranquil  bay. 

Neither  Queen,  nor  Warrior  is  the  Wissahikon. 

Let  us  look  at  its  Image,  as  it  rises  before  us. 

A  Prophetess,  who  with  her  cheek  embrowned  by  the  sun,  and  her  dark 
hair — not  gathered  in  clusters  or  curling  in  ringlets — falling  straightly  to  her 
white  shoulders,  comes  forth  from  her  cavern  in  the  woods,  and  speaks  to 
us  in  a  low  soft  tone,  that  awes  and  wins  our  hearts,  and  looks  at  us  with 
eyes  whose  steady  light  and  supernatural  brightness  bewilders  our  soul. 

Yes,  whenever  I  hear  the  word — Wissahikon — I  fancy  its  woods  and 
waves,  embodied  in  the  form  of  an  Indian  Prophetess,  of  the  far  gone  time. 

Oh,  there  are  strange  legends  hovering  around  those  wild  rocks  and  dells 
— legends  of  those  Monks  who  dwelt  there  long  ago,  and  worshipped  God 
without  a  creed — legends  of  that  far  gone  time,  when  the  white  robed  In 
dian  priests  came  up  the  dell  at  dead  of  night,  leading  the  victim  to  the  altar 
— to  the  altar  of  bloody  sacrifice — that  victim  a  beautiful  and  trembling  girl. 

Now  let  us  listen  to  the  Prophetess  as  she  speaks,  and  while  her  voice 
thrills,  her  eyes  fire  us,  let  us  hear  from  her  lips  the  Legends  of  the  olden 
times. 

I.— THE   CONSECRATION    OF   THE    DELIVERER. 

IT  stood  in  the  shadows  of  the  Wissahikon  woods,  that  ancient  Mon 
astery,  its  dark  walls  canopied  by  the  boughs  of  the  gloomy  pine,  inter 
woven  with  leaves  of  grand  old  oaks. 

From  the  waters  of  the  wood-hidden  stream,  a  winding  road  led  up  to  its 
gates ;  a  winding  road  overgrown  with  tall  rank  grass,  and  sheltered  from 
the  light  by  the  thick  branches  above. 


THE   CONSECRATION    OF   THE   DELIVERER.  87 

A  Monastery  ?  Yes,  a  Monastery,  here  amid  the  wilds  of  Wissahikon, 
in  the  year  of  Grace  1773,  a  Monastery  built  upon  the  soil  of  William 
Penn ! 

Let  me  paint  it  for  you,  at  the  close  of  this  cairn  summer  day. 

The  beams  of  the  sun,  declining  far  in  the  west,  shoot  between  the  thickly 
gathered  leaves,  and  light  up  the  green  sward,  around  those  massive  gates, 
and  stream  with  sudden  glory  over  the  dark  old  walls.  It  is  a  Monastery, 
yet  here  we  behold  no  js  welling  dome,  no  Gothic  turrets,  no  walls  of  mas 
sive  stone.  A  huge  square  edifice,  built  one  hundred  years  ago  of  the 
trunks  of  giant  oaks  and  pines,  it  rises  amid  the  woods,  like  the  temple  of 
some  long  forgotten  religion.  The  roof  is  broken  into  many  fantastic 
forms  ; — here  it  rises  in  a  steep  gable,  yonder  the  heavy  logs  are  laid  proa 
trate  ;  again  they  swell  into  a  shapeless  mass,  as  though  stricken  by  a 
hurricane. 

Not  many  windows  are  there  in  the  dark  old  walls,  but  to  the  west  four 
large  square  spaces  framed  in  heavy  pieces  of  timber,  break  on  your  eye, 
while  on  the  other  sides  the  old  house  presents  one  blank  mass  of  logs,  ris 
ing  on  logs. 

No  :  not  one  blank  mass,  for  at  this  time  of  year,  when  the  breath  of 
June  hides  the  Wissahikon  in  a  world  of  leaves,  the  old  Monastery  looks 
like  a  grim  soldier,  who  scathed  by  time  and  battle,  wears  yet  thick  wreaths 
of  laurel  over  his  armour,  and  about  his  brow. 

Green  vines  girdle  the  ancient  house  on  every  side.  From  the  squares 
of  the  dark  windows,  from  the  intervals  of  the  massive  logs,  they  hang  in 
luxuriant  festoons,  while  the  shapeless  roof  is  all  one  mass  of  leaves. 

Nay,  even  the  wall  of  logs  which  extends  around  the  old  house,  with  ? 
ponderous  gate  to  the  west,  is  green  with  the  touch  of  June.  Not  a  trunk 
but  blooms  with  some  drooping  vine ;  even  the  gateposts,  each  a  solid 
column  of  oak,  seem  to  wave  to  and  fro,  as  the  summer  breeze  plays  with 
their  drapery  of  green  leaves. 

It  is  a  sad,  still  hour.  The  beams  of  the  sun  stream  with  fitful  splendor 
over  the  green  sward.  That  strange  old  mansion  seems  as  sad  and  deso 
late  as  the  tomb.  But  suddenly — hark !  Do  you  hear  the  clanking  of 
those  bolts,  the  crashing  of  the  unclosing  gates  ? 

The  gates  creak  slowly  aside  ! — let  us  steal  behind  this  cluster  of  pines, 
and  gaze  upon  the  inhabitants  of  the  Monastery,  as  they  come  forth  for 
their  evening  walk 

Three  figures  issue  from  the  opened  gates,  an  old  man  whose  withered 
features  and  white  hairs  are  thrown  strongly  into  the  fading  light,  by  his 
long  robe  of  dark  velvet.  On  one  arm,  leans  a  young  girl,  also  dressed  in 
black,  her  golden  hair  falling — not  in  ringlets — but  in  rich  masses,  to  her 
shoulders.  She  bends  upon  his  arm,  and  with  that  living  smile  upon  her 
lips,  and  in  her  eyes,  look  up  into  his  face. 

On  the  other  arm,  a  young  man,  whose  form,  swelling  with  the  proud 


88  THE   WISSAHIKON. 

outlines  of  early  manhood,  is  attired  in  a  robe  or  gown,  dark  as  his  father's 
while  his  bronzed  face,  shaded  by  curling  brown  hair,  seems  to  reflect  the 
silent  thought,  written  upon  the  old  man's  brow. 

They  pace  slowly  along  the  sod.  Not  a  word  is  spoken.  The  old  man 
raises  his  eyes,  and  lifts  the  square  cap  from  his  brow — look !  how  that 
golden  beam  plays  along  his  brow,  while  the  evening  breeze  tosses  his 
white  hairs.  There  is  much  suffering,  many  deep  traces  of  the  Past,  writ 
ten  on  his  wrinkled  face,  but  the  light  of  a  wild  enthusiasm  beams  from  his 
blue  eyes. 

The  young  man — his  dark  eyes  wildly  glaring  fixed  upon  the  sod — moves 
by  the  old  man's  side,  but  speaks  no  word. 

The  girl,  that  image  of  maidenly  grace,  nurtured  into  beauty,  within  an 
hour's  journey  of  the  city,  and  yet  afar  from  the  world,  still  bends  over  that 
aged  arm,  and  looks  smilingly  into  that  withered  face,  her  glossy  hair  wav 
ing  in  the  summer  wind. 

Who  are  these,  that  come  hither,  pacing,  at  the  evening  hour,  along  the 
wild  moss  ?  The  father  and  his  children  ! 

What  means  that  deep  strange  light,  flashing  not  only  from  the  blue  eyes 
of  the  father,  but  from  the  dark  eyes  of  his  son  ? 

Does  it  need  a  second  glance  to  tell  you,  that  it  is  the  light  of  Fanaticism, 
that  distortion  of  Faith,  the  wild  glare  of  Superstition,  that  deformity  of  Re 
ligion  ?'  T~ 

The  night  comes  slowly  down.  Still  the  Father  and  son  pace  the  ground 
in  silence,  while  the  breeze  freshens  and  makes  low  music  among  the 
leaves. — Still  the  young  girl,  bending  over  the  old  man's  arm,  smiles  ten 
derly  in  his  face,  as  though  she  would  drive  the  sadness  from  his  brow  with 
one  gleam  of  her  mild  blue  eyes. 

At  last — within  the  shadows  of  the  gate,  their  faces  lighted  by  the  last 
gleam  of  the  setting  sun — the  old  man  and  his  son  stand  like  figures  of 
stone,  while  each  grasps  a  hand  of  the  young  girl. 

Is  it  not  a  strange  yet  beautiful  picture  ?  The  old  Monastery  forms  one 
dense  mass  of  shade ;  on  either  side  extends  the  darkening  forest,  yet  here, 
within  the  portals  of  the  gate,  the  three  figures  are  grouped,  while  a  warm, 
soft  mass  of  tufted  moss,  spreads  before  them.  The  proud  manhood  of  the 
son,  contrasted  with  the  white  locks  of  the  father,  the  tender  yet  voluptuous 
beauty  of  the  girl  relieving  the  thought  and  sadness,  which  glooms  over 
each  brow. 

Hold — the  Father  presses  the  wrist  of  his  Son  with  a  convulsive  grasp — 
hush  !  Do  you  hear  that  low  deep  whisper  ? 

"  At  last,  it  comes  to  my  soul,  the  Fulfilment  of  Prophecy  !"  he  whispers 
and  is  sildnt  again,  but  his  lip  trembles  and  his  eye  glares. 

"  But  the  time — Father — the  time  ?"  the  Son  replies  in  the  same  deep 
voice,  while  his  eye  dilating,  fires  with  the  same  feeling  that  swells  hi« 
Father's  heart. 


THE    CONSECRATION    OF    THE    DELIVERER.  ^9 

"  The  last  day  of  this  year — the  third  hour  after  midnight — THE  DE 

LIVERER  WILL  COME  !" 

These  words  may  seem  lame  and  meaningless,  when  spoken  again,  but 
had  you  seen  the  look  that  kindled  over  the  old  man's  face,  his  white  hand 
raised  above  his  head,  had  you  heard  his  deep  voice  swelling  through  the 
silence  of  the  woods,  each  word  would  ring  on  your  ear,  as  though  it  quiv 
ered  from  a  spirit's  tongue. 

Then  the  old  man  and  his  son  knelt  on  the  sod,  while  the  young  girl — 
looking  in  their  faces  with  wonder  and  awe— sank  silently  beside  them. 

The  tones  of  Prayer  broke  upon  the  stillness  of  the  darkening  woods. 

Tell  us  the  meaning  of  this  scene.  Wherefore  call  this  huge  editice, 
where  dark  logs  are  clothed  in  green  leaves,  by  the  old  world  name  of  Mo 
nastery  ?  Who  are  these — father,  son,  and  daughter — that  dwell  within  its 
walls  ? 

Seventeen  years  ago — from  this  year  of  Grace,  1773, — there  came  to  the 
wilds  of  the  Wissahikon,  a  man  in  the  prime  of  mature  manhood,  clad  in  a 
long,  dark  robe,  with  a  cross  of  silver  gleaming  on  his  breast.  With  one 
arm  he  gathered  to  his  heart  a  smiling  babe,  a  little  girl,  whose  golden  hair 
floated  over  his  dark  dress  like  sunshine  over  a  pall ;  by  the  other  hand  he 
led  a  dark  haired  boy. 

His  name,  his  origin,  his  object  in  the  wilderness,  no  one  knew,  but  pur 
chasing  the  ruined  Block-House,  which  bore  on  its  walls  and  timbers  the 
marks  of  many  an  Indian  fight,  he  shut  himself  out  from  all  the  world.  His 
s^n,  his  daughter,  grew  up  together  in  this  wild  solitude.  The  voice  of 
prayer  was  often  heard  at  dead  of  night,  by  the  belated  huntsman,  swelling 
from  the  silence  of  the  lonely  house. 

By  slow  degrees,  whether  from  the  cross  which  the  old  stranger  wore 
ipon  his  breast,  or  from  the  sculptured  images  which  had  been  seen  within 
the  walls  of  his  forest  home,  the  place  was  called — the  Monastery — and  its 
occupant  the  Priest. 

Had  he  been  drawn  from  his  native  home  by  crime  ?  Was  his  name 
enrolled  among  the  titled  and  the  great  of  his  Father-land,  Germany  ?  Or, 
perchance,  he  was  one  of  those  stern  visionaries,  the  Pietists  of  Germany, 
who,  lashed  alike  by  Catholic  and  Protestant  persecutors,  brought  to  the 
wilds  of  Wissahikon  their  beautiful  Fanaticism  ? 

For  that  Fanaticism,  professed  by  a  band  of  brothers,  who  years  before 
driven  from  Germany,  came  here  to  Wissahikon,  built  their  Monastery,  and 
worshipped  God,  without  a  written  creed,  was  beautiful. 

It  was  a  wild  belief,  tinctured  with  the  dreams  of  Alchemists,  it  may  be, 
yet  still  full  of  faith  in  God,  and  love  to  man.  Persecuted  by  the  Pro- 
test-jnts  of  Germany,  as  it  was  by  the  Catholics  of  France,  it  still  treasured 
the  Bible  as  its  rule  and  the  Cross  as  its  symbol. 

The  Monastery,  in  which  the  brothers  of  the  faith  lived  for  long  years, 
G 


90  THE    WISSAHIKON. 

was  situated  on  the  brow  of  a  hill,  not  a  mile  from  the  old  Block-House. 
Here  the  Brothers  had  dwelt,  in  the  deep  serenity  of  their  own  hearts,  untii 
one  evening  tney  gathered  in  their  garden,  around  the  form  of  their  dying 
father,  who  yielded  his  soul  to  God  in  their  midst,  while  the  setting  sun 
and  the  calm  silence  of  universal  nature  gave  a  strange  grandeur  to  the 
scene. 

But  it  was  not  with  this  Brotherhood  that  the  stranger  of  the  Block-House 
held  communion. 

His  communion  was  with  the  dark-eyed  son,  who  grew  up,  drinking  the 
fanaticism  of  his  father,  in  many  a  midnight  watch  with  the  golden-haired 
daughter,  whose  smile  was  wont  to  drive  the  gloom  from  his  brow,  the 
wearing  anxiety  from  his  heart. 

Who  was  the  stranger  ?  No  one  knew.  The  farmer  of  the  Wissahikon 
had  often  seen  his  dark-robed  form,  passing  like  a  ghost  under  the  solemn 
pines  ;  the  wandering  huntsman  had  many  a  time,  on  his  midnight  ramble, 
heard  the  sounds  of  prayer  breaking  along  the  silence  of  the  woods  from 
the  Block-House  walls  :  yet  still  the  life,  origin,  objects  of  the  stranger  were 
wrapt  in  impenetrable  mystery. 

Would  you  know  more  of  his  life  ?  Would  you  penetrate  the  mystery 
of  this  dim  old  Monastery,  shadowed  by  the  thickly-clustered  oaks  and 
pines,  shut  out  from  the  world  by  the  barrier  of  impenetrable  forests  ? 

Would  you  know  the  meaning  of  those  strange  words,  uttered  by  the  old 
man,  on  the  calm  summer  evening  ? 

Come  with  me,  then — at  midnight — on  the  last  day  of  1773.  We  will 
enter  the  Block-House  together,  and  behold  a  scene,  which,  derived  from  a 
tradition  of  the  past,  is  well  calculated  to  thrill  the  heart  with  a  deep  awe. 

It  is  midnight :  there  is  snow  on  the  ground :  the  leafless  trees  fling  their 
bared  limbs  against  the  cold  blue  of  the  starlit  sky. 

The  old  Block-House  rises  dark  and  gloomy  from  the  snow,  with  the 
heavy  trees  extending  all  around. 

The  wind  sweeps  through  the  woods,  not  with  a  boisterous  roar,  but  the 
strange  sad  cadence  of  an  organ,  whose  notes  swell  away  through  the  arches 
of  a  dim  cathedral  aisle. 

Who  would  dream  that  living  beings  tenanted  this  dark  mansion,  arising 
in  one  black  mass  from  the  oed  of  snow,  its  huge  timbers,  revealed  in 
various  indistinct  forms,  by  the  cold  clear  light  of  the  stars  ?  Centred  in 
the  midst  of  the  desolate  woods,  it  looks  like  the  abode  of  spirits,  or  yet  like 
some  strange  sepulchre,  in  which  the  dead  of  long-past  ages  lie  entombed. 

There  is  no  foot-track  on  the  winding  road — the  snow  presents  one 
smooth  white  surface — yet  the  gates  are  thrown  wide  open,  as  if  ready  for 
*he  coming  of  a  welcome  guest. 

Through  this  low,  narrow  door — also  flung  wide  open— -along  this  dark 
rorrldor,  we  will  enter  the  Monastery. 


THE    CONSECRATION    OF    THE    DELIVERER.  91 

In  the  centre  of  this  room,  illumined  by  the  light  of  two  tall  white  candles 
sits  the  old  man,  his  slender  form  clad  in  dark  velvet,  with  the  silver  cross 
gleaming  on  his  bosom,  buried  in  the  cushions  of  an  oaken  chair. 

His  slender  hands  are  laid  upon  his  knees — he  sways  slowly  to  and  fro 
— while  his  large  blue  eye,  dilating  with  a  wild  stare,  is  fixed  upon  the 
opposite  wall. 

Hush  !  Not  a  word — not  even  the  creaking  of  a  footstep — for  this  old 
man,  wrapped  in  his  thoughts,  sitting  alone  in  the  centre  of  this  strangely 
furnished  room,  fills  us  with  involuntary  reverence. 

Strangely  furnished  room  ?  Yes,  circular  in  form,  with  a  single  doorway, 
huge  panels  of  dark  oaken  wainscot,  rise  from  the  bared  floor  to  the  gloomy 
ceiling.  Near  the  old  man  arises  a  white  altar,  on  which  the  candles  are 
placed,  its  spotless  curtain  floating  down  to  the  floor.  Between  the  candles, 
you  behold,  a  long,  slender  flagon  of  silver,  a  wreath  of  laurel  leaves,  fresh 
gathered  from  the  Wissahikon  hills,  and  a  Holy  Bible,  bound  in  velvet,  with 
antique  clasps  of  gold. 

Behind  the  altar,  gloomy  and  sullen,  as  if  struggling  with  the  shadows  of 
the  room,  arises  a  cross  of  Iron. 

On  yonder  small  fire-place,  rude  logs  of  oak  and  hickory  send  up  their 
mingled  smoke  and  flame. 

The  old  man  sits  there,  his  eyes  growing  wilder  in  their  gaze  every 
moment,  fixed  upon  the  solitary  door.  Still  he  sways  to  and  fro,  and  now 
his  thin  lips  move,  and  a  faint  murmur  fills  the  room. 

"  He  will  come!"  mutters  the  Priest  of  the  Wissahikon,  as  common 
rumor  named  him.  "Jit  the  third  hour  after  midnight,  the  Deliverer  will 
cornel" 

These  words  acquire  a  singular  interest  from  the  tone  and  look  which 
accompany  their  utterance. 

Hark — the  door  opens — the  young  man  with  the  bronzed  face  and  deep 
dark  eyes,  appears — advances  to  his  father's  side. 

44  Father" — whispers  the  young  man — "  May  it  not  be  a  vain  fancy  after 
all !  This  Hope  that  the  Deliverer  will  come  ere  the  rising  of  the  sun  ?" 

You  can  see  the  old  man  turn  suddenly  round — his  eye  blazes  as  he 
grasps  his  son  by  the  wrist. 

"  Seventeen  years  ago,  I  left  my  father-land,  became  an  exile  and  an  out 
cast  !  Seventeen  years  ago,  I  forsook  the  towers  of  my  race,  that  even 
now,  darken  over  the  bosom  of  the  Rhine — I,  whose  name  was  ennobled 
by  the  ancestral  glories  of  thirteen  centuries,  turned  my  back  at  once  on 
pomp,  power, — all  that  is  worshipped  by  the  herd  of  mankind  !  In  my 
native  land,  they  have  believed  me  dead  for  many  years — the  castle,  the 
broad  domains  that  by  the  world's  law,  are  yours,  my  son,  now  OWD 
another's  rule — and  here  we  are,  side  by  side,  in  this  rude  temple  of  the 
Wissahikon  !  Why  is  this,  my  son  ? — Speak,  Paul,  and  answer  me,  why 


92  THE   WISSAHIKON. 

do  we  dwell  together,  the  father  and  his  children,  in  this  wild  forest  of  o 
strange  land  ?" 

The  sun  veiled  his  eyes  with  his  clasped  hands :  the  emotion  of  hia 
father's  look,  thrilled  him  to  the  soul. 

"  I  will  tell  you  why  !  Seventeen  years  ago,  as  I  bent  over  the  body  of 
my  dead  wife,  even  in  the  death-vault  of  our  castle,  on  the  Rhine,  the 
Voice  of  God,  spake  to  my  soul — bade  me  resign  all  the  world  and  its  toys 
—bade  me  take  my  children,  and  go  forth  to  a  strange  land !" 

"  And  there  await  the  Fulfilment  of  Prophecy  !"  whispered  Paul,  raising 
his  hand  from  the  clasped  hands. 

"  For  seventeen  years  I  have  buried  my  soul,  in  the  pages  of  that  book" — 

"  I  have  shared  your  studies,  father !  Reared  afar  from  the  toll  and  the 
vanity  of  worldly  life,  I  have  made  my  home  with  you  in  this  hermitage. 
Together  we  have  wept — prayed — watched  over  the  pages  of  Revelation  !" 

"  You  have  become  part  of  my  soul,"  said  the  Priest  of  Wissahikon,  in  a 
softened  voice,  as  he  laid  his  withered  hand  upon  the  white  forehead  of  his 
son:  "you  might  have  been  noble  in  your  native  land;  yes,  your  sword 
might  have  carved  for  you  a  gory  renown  from  the  corses  of  dead  men, 
butchered  in  battle ;  or  the  triumphs  of  poetry  and  art,  might  have  clothed 
your  brow  in  laurel,  and  yet  you  have  chosen  your  lot  with  me  ;  with  me, 
devoted  life  and  soul  to  the  perusal  of  God's  solemn  book !" 

The  dark  eye  of  the  son  began  to  burn,  with  the  same  wild  light  that 
blazed  over  his  father's  face. 

"  And  our  studies,  our  long  and  painful  search  into  the  awful  world,  which 
the  Bible  opens  to  our  view,  has  ended  in  a  knowledge  of  these  great  truths — 
The  Old  World  is  sunk  in  all  manner  of  crime,  as  was  the  Jlnte-Deluvian 
World  ; — THE  NEW  WORLD  is  given  to  man  as  a  refuge,  even  as  the  Jirk 
was  given  to  Noah  and  his  children. 

"  The  New  World  is  the  last  altar  of  human  freedom  left  on  the  surface 
of  the  Globe.  Never  shall  the  footsteps  of  Kings  pollute  its  soil.  It  is 
the  last  hope  of  man,  God  has  spoken,  and  it  is  so — Amen  !" 

The  old  man's  voice  rung,  in  deep,  solemn  tones,  through  the  lonely 
room,  while  his  eye  seemed  to  burn  as  with  the  fire  of  Prophecy. 

"  The  voice  of  God  has  spoken  to  me,  in  my  thoughts  by  day,  in  my 
dreams  by  night — /  will  send  a  DELIVERER  to  this  land  of  the  New  World, 
who  shall  save  my  people  from  physical  bondage,  even  as  my  Son  saved 
them  from  the  bondage  of  spiritual  death! 

"  And  to-night  he  will  come,  at  the  third  hour  after  midnight,  he  will 
come  through  yonder  door,  and  take  upon  himself  his  great  Mission,  to  free 
the  New  World  from  the  yoke  of  the  Tyrant ! 

"  Yes  my  son,  six  months  ago,  on  that  calm  summer  evening,  as  with 
Catherine  leaning  on  one  arm,  you  on  the  other,  I  strolled  forth  along  the 
woods,  that  voice  whispered  a  message  to  my  soul !  To-night  the  De 
hverer  will  come !" 


THE    CONSECRATION    OF   THE    DELIVERER.  «)3 

••  AJ  is  ready  for  his  coming !"  exclaimed  Paul,  advancing  to  the  altar 
••  Behold  the  Crown,  the  Flagon  of  Anointing  Oil,  the  Bible  and  the  Cross  '' 

The  old  man  arose,  lifting  his  withered  hands  above  his  head,  while  the 
light  streamed  over  his  silver  hairs. 

"  Even  as  the  Prophets  of  old  anointed  the  brows  of  men,  chosen  by 
God  to  do  great  deeds  in  His  name,  so  will  I, — purified  by  the  toil  and 
prayer,  and  self-denial  of  seventeen  long  years, — anoint  the  forehead  of  the 
Deliverer !" 

Hark  !  As  the  voice  of  the  aged  enthusiast,  tremulous  with  emotion, 
quivers  on  the  air,  the  clock  in  the  hall  without,  tells  the  hour  of  twelve  ! 
As  the  tones  of  that  bell  ring  through  the  lonely  Block  House,  like  a  voice 
from  the  other  world — deep,  sad  and  echoing — the  last  minute  of  1773  sank 
in  the  glass  of  Time,  and  1774  was  born. 

Then  they  knelt,  silently  beside  the  altar,  the  old  man  and  his  son.  The 
white  hairs  of  the  Priest,  mingled  with  the  brown  locks  of  Paul ;  their  hands 
clasped  together  rested  upon  the  Bible,  which  was  opened  at  the  Book  of 
Revelations. 

Their  separate  prayers  breathed  in  low  whispers  from  each  lip,  mingled 
together,  and  went  up  to  Heaven  in  ONE. 

An  hour  passed.  Hark  !  Do  you  hear  the  old  clock  again  ?  How  that 
sullen  ONE  !  swells  through  the  silent  halls  ! 

Still  they  kneel  together  there — still  the  voice  of  the  prayer  quivers  from 
each  ton^te. 

Another  hour,  spent  in  silent  prayer,  with  bowed  head  and  bended  knees. 
A. s  the  clock  speaks  out  the  hour  of  two,  the  old  man  rises  and  paces  the 
floor. 

"  Place  your  hand  upon  my  heart,  my  son  !  Can  you  feel  its  throb- 
bings  ?  Upon  my  brow — ah  !  it  burns  like  living  tire  !  The  hour  draws 
nigh — he  comes  !  Yes,  my  heart  throbs,  my  brain  fires,  but  my  faith  in 
God  is  firm — the  Deliverer  will  come  !" 

Vain  were  the  attempt  to  picture  the  silent  agony  of  that  old  man's  face  ! 
Call  him  dreamer — call  him  fanatic — what  you  will,  you  must  still  admit 
that  a  great  soul  throbbed  within  his  brain — still  you  must  reverence  the 
strong  heart  which  beats  within  his  shrunken  chest. 

^  till  must  you  remember  that  this  old  man  was  once  a  renowned  lord  ; 
that  he  forsook  all  that  the  world  holds  dear,  buried  himself  for  seventeen 
years  in  the  wilds  of  this  forest,  his  days  and  nights  spent  amid  the  dark 
^ages  of  the  Revelations  of  Saint  John. 

Up  and  down  the  oaken  floor,  now  by  the  altar,  where  the  light  shone 
over  his  brow,  now  in  the  darkness  where  the  writhings  of  his  countenance 
were  lost  in  shadows,  the  old  man  hurried  along,  his  eye  blazing  with  a 
wilder  light,  his  withered  cheek  with  a  warmer  glow. 

Meanwhile  the  son  remained  kneeling  in  prayer.  The  lights  burned 
dimly — the  room  was  covered  with  a  twilight  gloom.  Still  the  Iron  Crost 


y4  THE   W1SSAHIKON. 

was  seen — the  whole  altar  still  broke  through  the  darkness,  with  its  ftilvei 
Flagon  and  Laurel  Crown. 

Hark  !  That  sound — the  clock  is  on  the  hour  of  three  !  The  old  man 
starts,  quivers,  listens  ! 

ONE  !  rings  through  the  desolate  mansion. 

*'  I  hear  no  sound  !"  mutters  the  enthusiast.  But  the  words  had  not 
passed  on  his  lips,  when  Two  !  swells  on  the  air. 

"  He  comes  not !"  cries  Paul  darting  to  his  feet,  his  features  quivering 
with  suspense.  They  clasp  their  hands  together — they  listen  with  frenzied 
intensity. 

M  Still  no  footstep  !     Not  a  sound  !"  gasped  Paul. 

"  But  he  will  come  !"  and  the  old  man,  sublime  in  the  energy  of  fanati 
cism,  towered  erect,  one  hand  to  his  heart,  while  the  other  quivered  in 
the  air. 

THREE  !     The  last  stroke  of  the  bell  swelled — echoed — and  died  away. 
"  He  comes  not !"  gasped  the  son,  in  agony — «*  But  yes  !     Is  there  not  a 
footstep  on  the  frozen  snow  ?     Hark  !     Father,  father  !  do  you  hear  that 
footstep  ?     It  is  on  the  threshold  now — it  advances — " 

"  HE  comes  !"  whispered  the  old  man,  while  the  sweat  stood  out  in 
Deads  from  his  withered  brow. 

— "  It  advances,  father  !  Yes,  along  the  hall — hark  !  There  is  a  hand 
on  the  door — hah  !  All  is  silent  again  !  It  is  but  a  delusion — no  !  He  is 
come  at  last !" 

"  At  last  he  is  come  !"  gasped  the  old  man,  and  with  one  impulse  they 
sank  on  their  knees.  Hark !  You  hear  the  old  door  creak  on  its  hinges, 
3S  it  swings  slowly  open — a  strange  voice  breaks  the  silence. 

44  Friends,  I  have  lost  my  way  in  the  forest,"  said  the  voice,  speaking  in 
a  calm,  manly  ton?.  44  Can  you  direct  me  to  the  right  way  ?" 

The  old  man  looked  up  ;  a  cry  of  wonder  trembled  from  his  lips.  As 
for  the  son,  he  gazed  in  silence  on  the  Stranger,  while  his  features  were 
stamped  with  inexpressible  surprise. 

The  Stranger  stood  on  the  threshold,  his  face  to  the  light,  his  form  thrown 
boldly  forward,  by  the  darkness  at  his  back. 

He  stood  there,  not  as  a  Conqueror  on  the  battle  field,  with  the  spoils  of 
many  nations  trampled  under  his  feel. 

Towering  above  the  stature  of  common  men,  his  form  was  clad  in  the 
dress  of  a  plain  gentleman  of  that  time,  fashioned  of  black  velvet,  with  ruf 
fles  on  the  bosom  and  around  the  wrist,  diamond  buckles  gleaming  from  his 
shoes. 

Broad  in  the  shoulders,  beautiful  in  the  sinewy  proportions  of  each  limb, 
he  stood  there,  extending  his  hat  in  one  hand,  while  the  other  gathered  his 
heavy  cloak  around  the  arm. 

His  white  forehead,  large, overarched  eyes,  which  gleamed  even  through 
the  darkness  of  the  room  with  a  calm,  clear  light ;  his  lips  were  firm ;  his 


THE    CONSECRATION    OF    THE   DELIVERER.  95 

chin  round  and  full  ;  the  general  contour  of  his  face  stamped  with  the  settled 
beauty  of  mature  manhood,  mingled  with  the  tire  of  chivalry. 

In  one  word,  he  was  a  man  whom  you  would  single  out  among  a  crowd 
of  ten  thousand,  for  his  grandeur  of  bearing,  his  calm,  collected  dignity  of 
expression  and  manner. 

"  Friends,"  he  again  began,  as  he  started  back,  surprised  at  the  sight  of 
the  kneeling  enthusiasts,  "  I  have  lost  my  way — " 

"  Thou  hast  not  lost  thy  way,"  spoke  the  voice  of  the  old  man,  as  he 
arose  and  confronted  the  stranger  ;  "  thou  hast  found  thy  way  to  usefulness 
and  immortal  renown  !" 

The  Stranger  advanced  a  footstep,  while  a  warm  glow  overspread  his 
commanding  face.  Paul  stood  as  if  spell-bound  by  the  calm  gaze  of  his 
clear,  deep  eyes. 

"  Nay — do  not  start,  nor  gaze  upon  me  in  such  wonder  !  I  tell  thee  the 
voice  that  speaks  from  my  lips,  is  the  voice  of  Revelation.  Thou  art  called 
to  a  great  work  ;  kneel  before  the  altar  and  receive  thy  mission  !" 

Nearer  to  the  altar  drew  the  Stranger. 

"  This  is  but  folly — you  make  a  mock  of  me  !"  he  began  ;  but  the  wild 
gaze  of  the  old  man  thrilled  his  heart,  as  with  magnetic  fire.  He  paused, 
and  stood  silent  and  wondering. 

"  Nay,  doubt  me  not !  To-night,  filled  with  strange  thoughts  on  your 
country's  Future,  you  laid  yourself  down  to  sleep  within  your  habitation  in 
yonder  city.  But  sleep  fled  from  your  eyes — a  feeling  of  restlessness  drove 
you  forth  into  the  cold  air  of  night — " 

44  This  is  true  !"  muttered  the  Stranger  in  a  musing  tone,  while  his  face 
expressed  surprise. 

44  As  you  dashed  along,  mounted  on  the  steed  which  soon  will  bear  your 
form  in  the  ranks  of  battle,  the  cold  air  of  night  fanned  your  hot  brow,  but 
could  not  drive  from  your  soul  the  Thought  of  your  Country  !" 

4  How  knew  you  this  ?"  and  the  Stranger  started  forward,  grasping  the 
old  man  suddenly  by  the  wrist. 

Deeper  and  bolder  thrilled  the  tones  of  the  old  Enthusiast. 

44  The  rein  fell  loosely  on  your  horse's  neck — you  let  him  wander,  you 
cared  not  whither  !  Still  the  thought  that  oppressed  your  soul  was  the  fu 
ture  of  your  country.  Still  great  hopes — dim  visions  of  what  is  to  come — 
floating  panoramas  of  battle  and  armed  legions — darted  one  by  one  over 
your  soul.  Even  as  you  stood  on  the  threshold  of  yonder  door,  asking,  in 
calm  tones,  the  way  through  the  forest,  another  and  a  deeper  question  rose 
to  your  lips " 

"I  confess  it !"  said  the  Stranger,  his  tone  cetching  the  deep  emotion  of 
the  old  man's  voice.  '4  As  I  stood  upon  the  threshold,  the  question  that 
rose  to  my  lips  was — 

44  Is  it  lawful  for  a  SUBJECT  to  draw  sword  against  his  KING  ?" 

44  Man  !      You  read  the  heart!"  and  this  strange  man  of  commanding 


96  THE    WISSAHIKON. 

form  and  thoughtful  brow,  gazed  fixedly  in  the  eyes  of  the  Enthusiast 
while  his  face  expressed  every  conflicting  emotion  of  doubt,  suspicion,  sur 
prise  and  awe. 

"  Nay,  do  not  gaze  upon  me  in  such  wonder !  I  tell  thee  a  great  work 
has  been  allotted  unto  thee,  ty  the  FATHER  of  all  souls  !  Kneel  by  this 
altar — and  here,  in  the  silence  of  night,  amid  the  depths  of  these  wild  woods 
— will  I  anoint  thee  Deliverer  of  this  great  land,  even  as  the  men  of  ju«?ah, 
in  the  far-gone  time,  anointed  the  brows  of  the  chosen  David  !" 

It  may  have  been  a  sudden  impulse,  or  perchance,  some  conviction  of  the 
luture  flashed  over  the  Stranger's  soul,  but  as  the  gloom  of  that  chamber 
gathered  round  him,  as  the  voice  of  the  old  man  thrilled  in  his  ear,  he  felt 
those  knees,  which  never  yielded  to  man,  sink  beneath  him,  he  bowed  be 
fore  the  altar,  his  brow  bared,  and  his  hands  laid  upon  the  Book  of  God. 

The  light  flashed  over  his  bold  features,  glowing  with  the  beauty  of  man 
hood  in  its  prime,  over  his  proud  form,  dilating  with  a  feeling  of  inexpressi 
ble  agitation. 

On  one  side  of  the  altar  stood  the  old  man — the  Priest  of  the  Wissahikon 
— his  silver  hair  waving  aside  from  his  flushed  brow — on  the  other,  his  son, 
bronzed  in  face,  but  thoughtful  in  the  steady  gaze  of  his  large  full  eyes. 

Around  this  strange  group  all  was  gloom  :  the  cold  wintry  air  poured 
through  the  open  door,  but  they  heeded  it  not. 

44  Thou  art  called  to  the  great  work  of  a  Champion  and  Deliverer  ! 
Soon  thou  wilt  ride  to  battle  at  the  head  of  legions — soon  thou  wilt  lead  a 
people  on  to  freedom — soon  thy  sword  will  gleam  like  a  meteor  over  the 
ranks  of  war !" 

As  the  voice  of  the  old  man  in  the  dark  robe,  with  the  silver  cross  flash 
ing  on  his  heart,  thrills  through  the  chamber — as  the  Stranger  bows  his 
head  as  if  in  reverence,  while  the  dark-browed  son  looks  silently  on — look 
yonder,  in  the  dark  shadows  of  the  doorway  ! 

A  young  form,  with  a  dark  mantle  floating  round  her  white  robes,  stands 
trembling  there.  As  you  look,  her  blue  eye  dilates  with  fear,  her  hair 
streams  in  a  golden  shower,  down  to  the  uncovered  shoulders.  Her  finger 
is  pressed  against  her  lip  ;  she  stands  doubting,  fearing,  trembling  on  the 
threshold. 

Unseen  by  all,  she  fears  that  her  father  may  work  harm  to  the  kneeling 
Stranger.  What  knows  she  of  his  wild  dreams  of  enthusiasm  ?  The 
picture  which  she  beholds  terrifies  her.  This  small  and  gloomy  chamber, 
lighted  by  the  white  candles — the  altar  rising  in  the  gloom — the  Iron  Cross 
confronting  the  kneeling  man,  like  a  thing  of  evil  omen — her  brother,  mute 
and  wondering — her  father,  with  white  hairs  floating  aside  from  his  flushed 
forehead.  The  picture  was  singular  and  impressive :  the  winter  wind, 
moaning  sullenly  without,  imparted  a  sad  and  organ-like  music  to  the  scene. 

"  Dost  thou  promise,  that  when  the  appointed  time  arrives,  thou  wilt  be 
found  ready,  sword  in  hand,  to  fight  for  thy  country  and  thy  God  ?" 


THE    CONSECRATION    OF   THE    DELIVERER.  91 

It  was  in  tones  oroken  by  emotion,  that  the  Stranger  simply  answered-^ 
"  I  do !" 

"  Dost  thou  promise,  in  the  hour  of  thy  fflory — when  a  nation  shall  bow 
before  thee — as  in  the  fierce  moment  of  adversity, — when  thou  shall  be 
hold  thy  soldiers  starving  for  want  of  bread — to  remember  the  great  truth, 
written  in  these  words — '  /  am  but  the  Minister  of  God  in  the  great  work 
of  a  nation' 's  freedom.''  ' 

Again  the  bowed  head,  again  the  tremulous — "  1  do  promise  !" 

"  Then,  in  P  is  name,  who  gave  the  New  World  to  the  millions  of  the 
human  race,  as  the  last  altar  of  their  rights,  I  do  consecrate  thee  its — 
DELIVERER  !" 

With  the  finger  of  his  extended  hand,  touched  with  the  anointing  oil,  he 
described  the  figure  of  a  Cross  on  the  white  forehead  of  the  Stranger,  who 
raised  his  eyes,  while  his  lips  murmured  as  if  in  prayer. 

Never  was  nobler  King  anointed  beneath  the  shadow  of  Cathedral  arch 
— never  did  holier  Priest  administer  the  solemn  vow  !  A  poor  Cathedral, 
this  rude  Block  House  of  the  Wissahikon — a  plainly-clad  gentleman,  this 
kneeling  Stranger — a  wild  Enthusiast,  the  old  man  !  I  grant  it  all.  And 
yet,  had  you  seen  the  Enthusiasm  of  the  white-haired  Minister,  reflected  in 
the  Stranger's  brow,  and  cheek,  and  eyes,  had  you  marked  the  contrast  be 
tween  the  shrunken  form  of  the  "  Priest,"  and  the  proud  figure  of  the 
Anointed, — both  quivering  with  the  same  agitation, — you  would  confess 
with  me,  that  this  Consecration  was  full  as  holy,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven,  as 
that  of  "  Good  King  George." 

And  all  the  while  that  young  man  stood  gazing  on  the  stranger  in  silent 
awe,  while  the  girl,  trembling  on  the  threshold,  a  warm  glow  lightens  up 
her  face,  as  she  beheld  the  scene. 

"  When  the  time  comes,  go  forth  to  victory  !  On  thy  brow,  no  con 
queror's  blood-red  wreath,  but  this  crown  of  fadeless  laurel  !" 

He  extends  his  hand,  as  if  to  wreath  the  Stranger's  brow,  with  the  leafy 
crown — yet  look  !  A  young  form  steals  up  to  his  side,  seizes  the  crown 
from  his  hand,  aad,  ere  you  can  look  again,  it  falls  upon  the  bared  brow  of 
the  kneeling  man. 

He  looks  up  and  beholds  that  young  girl,  with  the  dark  mantle  gathered 
over  her  white  robes,  stand  blushing  and  trembling  before  the  altar,  as 
though  frightened  at  the  boldness  of  the  deed. 

"  It  is  well !"  said  the  aged  man,  regarding  his  daughter  with  a  kindly 
smile.  "  From  whom  should  the  Deliverer  of  a  Nation  receive  his  crown 
of  laurel,  but  from  the  hands  of  a  stainless  woman  !" 

"  Rise  !  The  Champion  and  Leader  of  a  People  !"  spoke  the  deep  voice 
of  the  son,  as  he  stood  before  the  altar,  surveying,  with  one  glance,  the  face 
of  his  father — the  countenance  of  the  blushing  girl,  and  the  bowed  head  of 
the  Stranger.  "  Rise,  sir,  and  take  this  hand,  which  was  never  yet  given 


98  THE   WISSAHIKON. 

to  man  !  I  know  not  thy  name,  yet,  on  this  book,  I  swear  to  be  faithful  tc 
thee,  even  to  the  death  !" 

The  Stranger  rose,  proudly  he  stood  there,  as  with  the  consciousness  of 
his  commanding  look  and  form.  The  laurel-wreath  encircled  his  white 
forehead ;  the  cross,  formed  by  the  anointing  oil,  glistened  in  the  light. 

Paul,  the  son,  buckled  a  sword  to  his  side  ;  the  old  man  extended  his 
hands  as  if  in  blessing,  while  the  young  girl  looked  up  silently  into  his  face. 

They  all  beheld  the  form  of  this  strange  man  shake  with  emotion ;  while 
that  face,  whose  calm  beauty  had  won  their  hearts,  now  quivered  in  every 
fibre. 

The  wind  moaned  sadly  over  the  frozen  snow,  yet  these  words,  uttered 
by  the  stranger,  were  heard  distinctly  by  all — 

"  From  you,  old  man,  I  take  the  vow  !  From  you,  fair  girl,  the  laurel ! 
From  you,  brave  friend,  the  sword  !  On  this  book  I  swear  to  be  faithful 
unto  all !" 

And  as  the  light  flashed  over  his  quivering  features,  he  laid  his  hand  upon 
the  Book  and  kissed  the  hilt  of  the  sword. 


Years  passed. 

The  memory  of  that  New  Year's  night  of  1774,  perchance,  had  passed 
with  years,  and  lost  all  place  in  the  memory  of  living  being. 

America  was  a  nation — Washington  was  President. 

Through  the  intervals  of  the  trees  shine  the  beams  of  the  declining  sun, 
but  the  Block-House  was  a  mass  of  ruins.  Burned  one  night  by  the  British  $ 
in  the  darkest  hour  of  the  war,  its  blackened  timbers  were  yet  encircled  by 
green  leaves. 

Still  the  smiling  summer  sun  shone  over  the  soft  sward  and  among  the 
thickly  clustered  trees  of  Wissahikon. 

But  Father — Son — Daughter — where  are  they  ? 

Yonder,  a  square  enclosure  of  stone  shuts  three  green  mounds  out  from 
the  world. 

The  sad  story  of  their  lives  may  not  be  told  in  few  words.  The  terrors 
of  that  night  when  the  Block-House  was  fired,  and — but  we  must  not  speak 
of  it !  All  we  can  say  is — look  yonder,  and  behold  their  graves  ! 

Hark  !  The  sound  of  horses'  hocfs !  A  man  of  noble  presence  appears, 
guiding  his  gallant  grey  steed,  along  the  winding  road.  He  dismounts  ;  the 
horse  wanders  idly  over  the  sod,  cropping  the  fragrant  wild  grass. 

This  man  of  noble  presence,  dressed  in  plain  black  velvet,  with  a  star 
gleaming  on  his  breast,  with  a  face,  magnificent  in  its  wrinkled  age,  as  it  was 
beautiful  in  its  chivalric  manhood — this  man  of  noble  presence,  betore  whom 
kings  may  stand  uncovered,  approaches  the  ruin  of  the  Block-House. 

Do  you  see  his  eye  light  up  again  with  youthful  fire,  his  lip  quiver  with 
an  agitation  deeper  than  battle-rage  ? 


THE   MIDNIGHT    DEATH.  99 

There  ne  stands,  wnile  the  long  shadows  of  the  trees  darken  fc.r  over  the 
ward — there,  while  the  twilight  deepens  into  night,  gazing  with  a  heaving 
chest  and  quivering  lip,  upon  the  Ruins  of  the  old  Block-House. 

Perchance  he  thinks  of  the  dead,  or  it  may  be  his  thoughts  are  with 
scenes  of  the  Past — perchance,  even  now,  a  strange  picture  rises  before  him  ! 

— That  picture  a  darkened  chamber,  with  a  white  altar  rising  in  its  cen 
tre,  while  an  old  man,  and  his  brave  son,  and  virgin  daughter,  all  gather 
round  a  warrior  form,  hailing  him  with  one  voice — 
"THE    DELIVERER."* 


II.— THE    MIDNIGHT    DEATH, 

LET  me  tell  you  a  legend  of  the  Revolution — a  legend  that  even  now 
makes  my  blood  run  cold  to  think  upon. 

You  all  have  seen  the  massive  rock  that  projects  out  into  the  roadside 
near  the  Red  Bridge.  You  have  seen  the  level  space,  that  spreads  from 
this  rock  to  that  ancient  but  ton  wood  tree  ;  you  have  seen  that  cluster  of 
mills,  and  cottages  and  barns,  nestling  there,  in  the  embrace  of  the  wild 
Wissahikon,  with  the  dark  rocks  and  the  darker  trees  frowning  far  above. 

It  was  here  along  this  open  space — about  the  time  of  the  Battle  of  Ger- 
mantown — it  was  here,  at  dead  of  night,  when  the  moon  was  shining:  down 
through  a  wilderness  of  floating  clouds,  that  there  came  an  old  man  and  his 
four  sons,  all  armed  with  rifle,  powder-horn  and  knife. 

They  came  stealing  down  that  rook — they  stood  in  the  centre  of  that 
level  space — a  passing  ray  of  moonlight  shone  over  the  tall  form  of  that  old 
man,  with  his  long  white  hairs  floating  on  the  breeze — over  the  manly 
figures  of  his  sons. 

And  why  came  that  old  farmer  from  the  woods  at  dead  of  night,  stealing 
toward  the  Wissahikon,  with  his  four  tall  sons  around  him,  armed  with  rifle 
and  with  knife  ? 

To-night  there  is  a  meeting  at  yon  lonely  house  far  up  the  Wissahikon 


*  NOTE  BY  THE  AUTHOR — Tn  this  Legend,  I  have  endeavored  to  compress  an  old-time 
tradition  of  the  Wissahikon,  which,  related  with  justice  to  all  its  details,  would  fill  a 
volume.  There  is  no  spot  in  the  land — not  even  on  the  storied  hills  of  the  Satitee,  or 
*he  beautiful  wilds  of  the  Kenehec — more  hallowed  of  poetry  and  romance,  than  this 
same  Wissahikon,  which,  attainable  by  half  an  hour's  journey  from  the  city,  yet  pre 
serves  its  rugged  grandeur  of  rock,  and  stream,  and  tree  ;  and  is  to-day  what  it  was 
two  hundred  years  ago.  It  was  here  that  the  Protestant  Monks  made  their  home, 
more  than  a  hundred  years  gone  by;  here,  driven  from  their  father-land,  by  the  uni 
ted  persecutions  of  Protestant  and  Catholic,  they  reared  their  Monastery,  and  wor 
shipped  God,  in  the  deep  silence  of  primeval  forests.  The  man  who  sneers  at  the 
first  settlers  of  Pennsylvania,  terming  them  in  derision,  (as  little  minds  are  wont,) 
the  "  ignorcnit  Germans,"  etc.  etc.,  should  come  here  to  the  wilds  of  Wissahikon,  and 
learn  something  of  the  philosophy,  the  religion,  and  toleration  of  these  German  colo 
nists.  The  Legend  will  be  more  clearly  understood  when  it  is  known  that  the  belief 
was  prevalent  among  these  Pietists  of  the  "Coming  of  a  Great  Man,"  who  was  to 
appear  in  the  wilderness,  in  fulfilment  of  a  Prophecy  in  the  Book  of  Revelations. 


100  THE    VVISSAHIKON. 

— a  meeting  of  all  the  farmers  of  Germantown   who  wish  to  join  the  army 
of  Mister  Washington,  now  hiding  away  in  the  wilds  of  the  Skippack. 

The  old  farmer  and  his  children  go  to  join  that  meeting.  Old  as  he  is, 
there  is  yet  fiery  blood  in  his  veins — old  as  he  is,  he  will  yet  strike  a  blow 
for  George  Washington. 

Suddenly  he  turns — he  flings  the  blaze  of  a  lantern  full  in  the  faces  of 
his  sons. 

"  You  are  all  here,  my  children,"  he  said,  "  and  yet  not  all."  A  gleam 
of  deep  sorrow  shot  from  the  calm  blue  eye. 

In  that  moment  he  remembered  that  missing  son — his  youngest  boy  with 
those  laughing  locks  of  golden  hair,  with  that  eye  of  summer  blue. 

One  year  ago  from  this  night  that  youth,  George  Derwent,  had  disap 
peared — no  one  knew  whither.  There  was  a  deep  mystery  about  it  all. 
It  was  true  that  this  young  man,  at  the  time  of  his  disappearance,  was  be 
trothed  to  a  beautiful  girl— an  orphan  child — who  had  been  reared  in  the 
family  of  an  old  Tory  down  the  Wissahikon,  an  old  Tory  named  Isaac 
Warden,  who  was  in  the  pay  of  the  British.  It  was  true  that  there  was 
some  strange  connection  between  this  Tory  and  young  Derwent ;  yet  old 
Michael  his  father,  had  heard  no  tidings  of  his  son  for  a  year — there  was  a 
dark  mystery  about  the  whole  affair.  . 

And  while  the  old  man  stood  there,  surveying  the  faces  of  his  sons,  there  ff 
came  stealing  along  the  narrow  road,  from  the  shadows  of  the  cottage  and    \ 
mill,  the  form  of  a  young  and  beautiful  girl,  with  a  dark  mantle  thrown     „ 
loosely  over  her  white  dress,  with  her  long  black  hair  waving  in  free  tresses     . 
about  her  shoulders.  ' 

It  was  Ellen,  the  betrothed  of  George  Derwent,  who  had  now  been  miss 
ing  from  the  wilds  of  Wissahikon  for  a  year. 

And  why  comes  this  orphan  girl,  with  her  full  dark  eye,  with  her  long 
black  hair  waving  on  the  breeze,  with  her  lovely  form  veiled  in  a  loose 
mantle  ?  Why  came  she  hither  so  lonely  at  dead  of  night  ? 

This  night,  one  year  ago,  George  Derwent  bade  her  good-bye  under  the 
shade  of  that  buttonwood  tree — told  her  that  some  dark  mysterious  cause 
would  lead  him  from  the  valley  for  a  year — and  then,  pressing  the  last 
good-bye  on  her  lips,  swore  to  meet  her  under  this  same  tree,  after  the 
lapse  of  a  year,  at  this  very  hour. 

And  now  she  comes  to  meet  her  lover — and  now  she  comes  to  keep 
her  tryst. 

And  the  moon,  beaming  from  the  parted  clouds,  fell  over  her  form,  as  she 
came  in  all  her  beauty  toward  that  buttonwood  tree,  looking  for  all  the 
world  like  the  spirit  of  that  lonely  dell. 

With  a  muttered  shriek  she  beheld  old  Michael  standing  there.  Then, 
rushing  forward,  she  seized  his  withered  hand,  and  bade  him  beware  of  the 
lonely  house  of  the  Wissahikon. 

That  night,  at  the  old  Tory's  house,  she  had  overheard  the  plot  of  some 


THE    MIDNIGHT   DEATH.  101 

British  trooper."  to  surprise  the  meeting  of  the  patriot  farmers — to  surprise 
them  and  crush  them  at  a  blow. 

Even  as  she  spoke,  grasping  that  old  man's  withered  hand,  there  to  the 
south,  was  heard  the  tramp  of  steeds.  Already  the  British  troopers  came 
on  to  the  work  of  massacre. 

A  cloud  passed  over  the  moon — it  was  dark — in  a  moment  it  was  light 
again. 

That  level  space  between  the  rock  and  the  tree  was  vacant — the  maiden 
was  gone  into  the  shade  of  the  forest  trees — and  there  on  that  bold  rock 
half  hidden  by  the  thick  foliage,  there  stood  Michael  Derwent  and  his  four 
sons,  waiting  for  the  assassin-band. 

Hark  !     The  tramp  of  steeds  !     Near — and  near  and  nearer  yet  it  grows  ! 

Look  !  They  emerge  from  the  shadow  of  the  mill,  ten  British  troopers, 
mounted  on  stout  steeds,  with  massy  cap  upon  each  brow,  pistols  in  each 
holster,  swords  by  each  side. 

For  a  moment  the  moon  shone  over  their  glittering  array,  and  then  all  is 
dark.  Hark  to  that  old  man's  whisper — 

"  My  boys,  do  you  see  them  Britishers  ?     Mark  each  one  of  you  his 
man  ;  and  when  they  cross  the  line  between  this  rock  and  that  Buttonwood 
^  tree — then  fire  !" 

And  they  came  on. 
*      The  captain  of  the  band  waved  his  sword  boastingly  in  the  air. 

In  a  moment,  he  cried,  we  will  be — in  the  midst  of  the  rebels — he  would 
have  said  ;  but  the  words  died  on  his  lips. 

He  fell  from  his  steed — with  a  horrid  curse  he  fell — he  was  dead  ! 

Did  you  see  that  flash  from  the  trees  ?  Did  you  hear  that  shout  of  old 
Michael  ?  Did  you  hear  the  crack  of  the  rifles  ? 

Look,  as  the  smoke  goes  up  to  Heaven — look,  as  the  moon  shines  out 
from  a  cloud  ! 

Where,  a  moment  ago,  were  ten  bold  troopers  riding  forward  at  their 
ease,  now  are  but  six.  There  are  four  dead  men  upon  the  ground — yonder 
through  the  Wissahikon  dash  four  riderless  steeds. 

With  a  wild  yell  the  six  troopers  spur  their  horses  to  the  fatal  rock — they 
rear  their  hoofs  against  its  breast — there  is  a  moment  of  murder  and  death. 

Look  !  That  trooper  with  the  slouching  hat — the  dark  plume  drooping 
over  his  brow — he  breasts  his  steed  against  the  rock — that  jet  black  horse 
flings  his  hoof  high  against  the  flinty  Carrier.  While  the  moon  hides  hei 
face  behind  that  cloud,  that  trooper  with  the  plume  drooping  over  his  brow 
leans  over  the  neck  of  his  steed — he  seizes  old  Michael  by  the  throat,  he 
drags  him  from  the  rock,  he  spurs  his  horse  toward  the  stream,  and  that  old 
man  hangs  there,  quivering  at  the  saddle-bow. 

Then  it  was  that  old  Michael  made  a  bold  struggle  for  his  life.  He  drew 
his  hunting  knife  from  his  belt — he  raised  it  in  the  darkened  air;  but  lock — 
the  trooper  snatches  it  from  his  grasp. 


102  THE    WISSAHIKON. 

«»  Die,  Rebel !"  he  shouts.  Bending  over  his  steed,  he  strikes  it  deep 
into  the  old  man's  neck  down  to  his  heart. 

Then  the  moon  shone  out.  Then,  as  the  old  man  fell,  the  moon  shone 
over  his  face,  convulsed  in  death,  over  his  glaring  eyes,  over  his  long  white 
hair,  dabbled  in  blood. 

He  fell  with  the  knife  sticking  in  his  throat. 

Then  the  trooper  slowly  dismounted  from  his  steed — he  kneels  beside 
the  corse — his  long  dark  plume  falls  over  the  face  of  the  dead  man. 

And  there  he  kneels,  while  the  people  of  the  valley,  aroused  by  the 
sound  of  conflict,  come  hastening  on  with  torches — there,  while  that  other 
band  of  British  troopers,  sweeping  from  the  north,  surprise  the  lonely  house 
of  the  Wissahikon,  and  come  over  the  stream  with  their  prisoner  in  their 
grasp — there  while  the  sons  of  Michael  Derwent — there  are  only  two  now 
— stood  pinioned  beside  the  corse  of  their  father,  there  kneels  that  trooper, 
with  his  long  plume  drooping  over  the  dead  man's  face. 

Look — that  old  man  with  those  hawk-like  eyes,  the  sharp  nose  and  thin 
lips — that  is  the  old  Tory,  Isaac  Warden. 

Look — that  fair  girl,  stealing  from  the  shade  of  that  tree  it  is  Ellen,  the 
orphan  girl,  the  betrothed  of  the  missing  George  Derwent. 

Look  !  The  trees  towering  above  are  reddened  by  the  light  of  torches. 
Hark — the  Wissahikon  rolls  murmuringly  on — still  that  trooper  kneels 
there,  bending  down  with  that  long  dark  plume  drooping  over  the  dead 
man's  face. 

A  strange  shudder — an  unknown  fear  thrills  through  the  hearts  of  all 
around.  No  one  dared  to  arouse  the  kneeling  man. 

At  last  that  burly  trooper  advances — he  lays  his  hand  upon  the  shoulder 
of  the  kneeling  man — he  bids  him  look  up.  And  he  does  look  up  ! 

Ah,  what  a  shudder  ran  through  the  group — ah,  what  a  groan  was  heard 
from  the  white  lips  of  those  two  sons  of  Michael  Derwent !  Even  that 
British  captain  starts  back  in  horror  of  that  face. 

The  trooper  looked  up — the  light  shone  upon  a  young  face  with  light 
blue  eyes,  and  locks  of  golden  hair  waving  all  around  it, — but  there  was  a 
horror  written  on  that  face,  worse  than  death,  a  horror  like  that  which 
stamps  the  face  of  a  soul  forever  lost. 

It  was  the  face  of  George  Derwent— he  knelt  beside  the  dead  body  of 
his  father — with  that  knife  sticking  in  his  throat. 

For  a  moment  there  was  an  awftfl  silence.  The  Parricide  slowly  rose, 
turned  his  face  from  the  dead,  and  folded  his  arms. 

Then  a  light  footstep  broke  the  deep  silence  of  this  scene — a  fair  form 
came  softly  through  the  crowd — it  was  Ellen,  the  Orphan  Girl. 

"  George — George,  I  see  you  once  more.  You  are  come,"  she  cried,  in 
her  wild  joy,  rushing  to  his  arms.  But  the  cry  of  joy  died  away  in  a 
groan  of  horror.  She  beheld  that  awful  face — one  of  her  dark  tresses  swept 
hia  clenched  right  hand.  That  hand  was  wet  with  blood. 


THE   MIDNIGHT   DEATH.  103 

Then  like  a  crushed  reed,  she  cowered  back  upon  the  ground.  Her 
lover  spoke  not,  but  he  slowly  raised  that  blood-red  hand  in  the  light,  and 
then — he  pointed  to  the  corse  of  Michael  Derwent,  with  the  reeking  knife 
standing  out  from  the  gash  along  the  throat. 

Then  the  full  horror  of  that  hour  burst  upon  the  maiden's  heart  Then 
she  slowly  rose,  then  she  laid  her  quivering  hand  upon  the  arm  of  that 
hoary  Traitor — Isaac  Warden. 

"  Old  man  !"  she  whispered,  in  that  low  deep  tone  that  came  from  hei 
bursting  heart. 

"  It  is  now  one  year  since  you  told  George  Derwent  that  he  could  not 
win  my  hand — the  hand  of  your  son's  child — unless  he  engaged  in  your 
service  as  a  British  spy,  (this  night,  and  this  night  only  did  I  learn  the 
mystery  of  that  foul  bargain.)  For  one  year  you  have  reaped  the  gains  of 
his  degradation — and  now,  after  that  year  is  past,  he,  George  Derwent,  who 
loved  your  son's  daughter,  with  as  true  a  love  as  ever  throbbed  beneath  the 
blue  heavens — he  returns  to  reap  his  harvest,  and — oh,  God — behold  that 
harvest !" 

And  with  her  dark  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets,  she  pointed  to  the 
ghastly  son,  and  the  dead  father.  Then  in  low,  deep  tones,  a  curse  trembled 
from  her  white  lips — the  orphan's  curse  upon  that  hoary  traitor.  And  he 
trembled.  Yes,  grown  grey  in  guilt,  he  trembled,  for  there  is  something  so 
dark,  so  dread  in  that  curse  of  a  wronged  orphan,  as  it  quivers  up  there, 
that  methinks  the  angels  around  the  Throne  of  God  turn  pale  and  weep  at 
the  sound. 

And  then  while  this  scene  froze  the  bystanders  with  awe,  George  Der 
went  slowly  opened  his  vest — he  unstrung  a  chain  of  slender  gold  from  his 
neck,  he  took  the  locket  from  the  place  where  it  had  hung  for  one  year ; 
moved  by  each  throbbing  of  his  heart — he  gave  it  to  the  maiden. 

He  then  pointed  to  her  form — and  then  to  Heaven.  To  his  own — and 
then  downward.  That  gesture  spoke  volumes. 

"  You  to  Heaven- — I — there." 

Then  with  that  Wood-stained  hand  he  tore  the  British  Lion  from  his 
breast — he  trampled  it  under  foot.  Then  gathering  the  strength  of  his 
strong  arm  for  the  effort,  he  tore  that  British  uniform — that  scarlet  tainted 
uniform — from  his  manly  chest — he  rent  it  into  rags. 

Then  without  a  word,  he  mounted  his  steed — he  rode  toward  the  stream 
— he  turned  that  ghastly  face  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Ellen  !  '  he  shrieked,  and  then  he  was  gone. 

"  Ellen  !"  he  shrieked,  and  then  there  was  the  sound  of  a  steed  dashing 
through  the  water,  crashing  through  the  woods. 

Then  a  shriek  so  wild,  so  dread,  rang  on  the  air — still  the  Parricide 
thundered  on. 

Not  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  scene  of  this  legend,  there  is 
a  steep  rock,  rising  one  hundred  feet  above  the  dark  waters  of  the  Wissahi- 


104  THE    WISSAHIKON. 

kon — rising  with  a  robe  of  gnarled  pines  all  about  it,  rising  like  a 
wreck  of  some  primeval  world. 

The  Parricide  thundered  on  and  on — at  last  his  steed  tottered  on  the 
verge  of  this  rock. 

For  a  moment  the  noble  horse  refused  to  take  the  leap. 

But  there,  there  is  a  dark  mist  before  the  eyes  of  the  Parricide — there 
was  the  figure  of  an  old  man — not  a  phantom  ;  ah,  no  !  ah,  no  !  It  was  too 
real  for  that — there  was  the  figure  of  an  old  man,  that  knife  protruding  from 
the  fatal  wound,  that  white  hair  waving  in  dribbled  blood. 

And  there  was  a  crash — then  an  awful  pause — then  far,  far  down  the 
dell  the  yell  of  the  dying  horse  and  his  rider  mingled  in  one,  and  went 
quivering  up  to  God. 

Ill— THE   BIBLE   LEGEND   OF  THE   WISSAHIKON. 

IT  was  here  in  these  wilds  of  the  Wissahikon,  on  the  day  of  the  battle, 
as  the  noonday  sun  came  shining  through  the  thickly  clustered  leaves,  that 
two  men  met  in  deadly  combat.  They  grappled  in  deadly  conflict  near  a 
rock,  that  rose — like  the  huge  wreck  of  some  primeval  world — at  least  one 
hundred  feet  above  the  dark  waters  of  the  Wissahikon. 

That  man  with  the  dark  brow,  and  the  darker  grey  eye,  flashing,  with 
deadly  light,  with  the  muscular  form,  clad  in  the  blue  hunting  frock  of  the 
Revolution,  is  a  Continental  named  Warner.  His  brother  was  murdered 
the  other  night  at  the  Massacre  of  Paoli.  That  other  man,  with  long  black 
hair,  drooping  along  his  cadaverous  face,  is  clad  in  the  half-military  costume 
of  a  Tory  refugee.  That  is  the  murderer  of  Paoli,  named  Dabney. 

They  had  met  there  in  the  woods  by  accident,  and  now  they  fought,  not 
with  sword  or  rifle,  but  with  long  and  deadly  hunting  knives,  that  flash  in 
the  light,  as  they  go  turning  and  twining  and  twisting  over  the  green  sward. 

At  last  the  Tory  was  down  !  Down  on  the  green  sward  with  the  knee 
of  the  Continental  upon  his  breast — that  upraised  knife  quivering  in  the 
light,  that  dark  grey  eye  flashing  death  into  his  face! 

"  Quarter — I  yield  !"  gasped  the  Tory,  as  the  knee  was  pressed  upon 
his  breast — "  Spare  me — I  yield  !" 

"  My  brother !"  said  the  Patriot  soldier,  in  that  low  deep  tone  of  deadly 
hate — •*  My  brother  cried  for  '  quarter'  on  the  night  of  Paoli,  and,  even  as 
he  clung  to  your  knees,  you  struck  that  knife  into  his  heart !  Oh  !  I  will 
give  you  the  quarter  of  Paoli !" 

And  his  hand  was  raised  for  the  blow,  and  his  teeth  were  clenched  in 
deadly  hate.  He  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  pinioned  the  Tory's  arms, 
and  with  one  rapid  stride  dragged  him  to  the  verge  of  the  rock,  and  held 
him  quivering  over  the  abyss. 

"  Mercy  !"  gasped  the  Tory,  turning  black  and  ashy  by  turns,  as  tha. 
iwful  gulf  yawned  below.  "  Mercy  !  I  have  a  wife — a  child — spare  me  1* 


THE    BIBLE    LEGEND    uF    THE    WISSAHIKON.  105 

Then  the  Continental,  with  his  muscular  strength  gathered  for  the  effort, 
snook  the  murderer  once  more  over  the  abyss,  and  then  hissed  this  bitter 
sneer  between  his  teeth  : 

"  My  brother  had  a  wife  and  two  children  ! — The  morning  after  the  night 
of  Paoli,  that  wife  was  a  widow,  those  children  were  orphans  ! — Wouldn't 
you  like  to  go  and  beg  your  life  of  that  widow  and  her  children  ?" 

This  proposal,  made  by  the  Continental  in  the  mere  mockery  of  hate, 
was  taken  in  serious  earnest  by  the  horror-stricken  Tory.  He  begged  to 
be  taken  to  the  widow  and  her  children,  to  have  the  pitiful  privilege  of  beg 
ging  his  life.  After  a  moment's  serious  thought,  the  patriot  soldier  con 
sented  ;  he  bound  the  Tory's  arms  yet  tighter ;  placed  him  on  the  rock 
again — led  him  up  to  the  woods. — A  quiet  cottage,  embosomed  among  trees, 
broke  on  their  eyes. 

They  entered  that  cottage.  There,  beside  the  desolate  hearth-stone,  sat 
the  widow  and  her  children.  She  sat  there  a  matronly  woman  of  thirty 
years,  with  a  face  faded  by  care,  a  deep  dark  eye,  and  long  black  hair  hang 
ing  in  dishevelled  flakes  about  her  shoulders. 

On  one  side  was  a  dark-haired  boy,  of  some  six  years — on  the  other  a 
little  girl,  one  year  younger,  with  light  hair  and  blue  eyes.  The  Bible — an 
old  and  venerable  volume — lay  open  on  that  mother's  knee. 

And  then  that  pale-faced  Tory  flung  himself  upon  his  knees,  confessed 
that  he  had  butchered  her  husband  on  the  night  of  Paoli,  but  begged  his  life 
at  her  hands  !  • 

"  Spare  me,  for  the  sake  of  my  wife,  my  child  !" 

He  had  expected  that  his  pitiful  moan  would  touch  the  widow's  heart — 
but  not  one  relenting  gleam  softened  her  pale  face. 

"  The  Lord  shall  judge  between  us  !"  she  said  in  a  cold  icy  tone,  that 
froze  the  murderer's  heart. — "  Look  !  The  Bible  lays  open  upon  my  knee.  I 
will  close  that  volume,  and  then  this  boy  shall  open  it,  and  place  his  linger 
at  random  upon  a  line,  and  by  that  line  you  shall  live  or  die  !" 

This  was  a  strange  proposal,  made  in  full  faith  of  a  wild  and  dark  super 
stition  of  the  olden  time. 

For  a  moment  the  Tory  kneeling  there,  livid  as  ashes,  was  wrapt  in 
thought.  Then  in  a  faltering  voice,  he  signified  his  consent. 

Raising  her  dark  eyes  to  Heaven,  the  mother  prayed  the  GREAT  FATHER 
to  direct  the  finger  of  her  son — she  closed  the  Bible — she  handed  it  to  that 
boy,  whose  young  cheek  reddened  with  loathing  as  he  gazed  upon  his 
father's  murderer  ! 

He  took  the  Bible — opened  its  holy  pages  at  random — placed  his  finger 
on  a  verse. 

Then  there  was  silence ! 

Then  that  Continental  soldier,  who  had  sworn  to  avenge  his  brother's 
death,  stood  there  with  dilating  eyes  and  parted  lips. 


106  THE    WISSAHIKON. 

Then  the  culpiit  kneeling  on  the  floor,  with  a  face  like  discolored  clay 
felt  his  heart  leap  to  his  throat. 

Then  in  a  clear,  bold  voice,  the  widow  read  this  line  from  the  Old  Testa 
ment ; — it  was  short,  yet  terrible: 

"  THAT  MAN  SHALL  DIE  !" 

Look  !  The  brother  springs  forward  to  plunge  a  knife  into  the  murder 
er's  heart,  but  the  Tory,  pinioned  as  he  is,  clings  to  the  widow's  knees  < 
He  begs  that  one  more  trial  may  be  made  by  the  little  girl,  that  child  of  five 
years,  with  golden  hair  and  laughing  eyes. 

The  widow  consents  ;  there  is  an  awful  pause. 

With  a  smile  in  her  eye,  without  knowing  what  she  does,  that  little  girl 
opens  the  Bible  as  it  lays  on  her  mother's  knee — she  turns  her  laughing  face 
away — she  places  her  finger  upon  a  line. 

That  awful  silence  grows  deeper  ! 

The  deep-drawn  breath  of  the  brother,  the  broken  gasps  of  the  murderer, 
alone  disturb  the  silence. — The  widow  and  dark-eyed  boy  are  breathless. 

That  little  girl,  unconscious  as  she  was,  caught  a  feeling  of  awe  from  the 
horror  of  the  countenances  around  her,  and  stood  breathless,  her  face  turned 
aside,  her  tiny  fingers  resting  on  that  line  of  life  or  death. 

At  last  gathering  courage,  the  widow  bent  her  eyes  to  the  page,  and  read. 
It  was  a  line  from  the  New  Testament. 

"  LOVE  YOUR  ENEMIES." 

Ah  !  that  moment  was  sublime  ! 

Oh !  awful  Book  of  God,  in  whos«  dread  pages  we  see  Job  talking  face 
to  face  with  Jehovah,  or  Jesus  waiting  by  Samaria's  well,  or  wandering  by 
the  waves  of  dark  Galilee.  Oh  !  awful  Book,  shining  to-night,  as  I  speak, 
the  light  of  that  widow's  home,  the  glory  of  that  mechanic's  shop,  shining 
where  the  world  comes  not,  to  look  on  the  last  night  of  the  convict  in  his 
cell,  lightening  the  way  to  God,  even  over  that  dread  gibbet.  Oh  !  book 
of  terrible  majesty  and  child-like  love,  of  sublimity  that  crushes  the  soul  into 
awe,  of  beauty  that  melts  the  heart  with  rapture : — you  never  shone  more 
strangely  beautiful  than  there,  in  the  lonely  cot  of  the  Wissahikon,  when 
you  saved  that  murderer's  life  ! 

For — need  I  tell  you — that  murderer's  life  was  saved  !  That  widow  recog 
nised  the  finger  of  God — even  the  stern  brother  was  awed  into  silence. 

The  murderer  went  his  way. 

Now  look  ye,  how  wonderful  are  the  ways  of  Heaven  1 

That  very  night,  as  the  widow  sate  by  her  lonely  hearth — her  orphans 
ty  her  side — sate  there  with  crushed  heart  and  hot  eye-balls,  thinking  of 
her  husband,  who  now  lay  mouldering  on  the  blood-drenched  sod  of  Paoli 
— there  was  a  tap  at  the  door. 

She  opened  the  door,  and — that  husband  living,  though  covered  witb 
-nany  wounds,  was  in  her  arms  ! 


THE   TEMPTATION    OF    WASHINGTON.  1Q7 

He  had  fallen  at  Paoli — but  not  in  death.  He  was  alive ;  his  wife  lay 
panting  on  his  breast. 

That  night  there  was  prayer  in  that  wood-embowered  Cot  of  the  Wissa- 
hikon ! 

IV.— THE  TEMPTATION  OF  WASHINGTON. 

THERE  are  days  in  winter  when  the  air  is  very  soft  and  balmy  as  the 
early  days  of  summer,  when,  in  fact,  that  glad  maiden  May  seems  to  blow 
her  warm  breath  in  the  grim  face  of  February,  until  the  rough  old  warrior 
laughs  again. 

It  was  a  day  like  this  that  the  morning  sunshine  was  streaming  over  a 
high  rock,  that  frowns  there,  far  above  the  Wissahikon. 

A  high  rock — attainable  only  by  a  long,  winding  path — fenced  in  by  the 
trunks  of  giant  pines,  whose  boughs,  on  the  coldest  day  of  winter,  form  a 
canopy  overhead. 

This  rock  is  covered  with  a  carpet  of  evergreen  moss. 

And  near  this  nook — this  chamber  in  the  forest,  for  it  was  nothing  less-— • 
sate  an  old  man,  separated  from  it  by  the  trunks  of  the  pines,  whose  boughs 
concealed  his  form. 

That  old  man  had  come  here,  alone,  to  think  over  his  two  sons,  now 

freezing  at  Valley  Forge for,  though  the  father  was  a  Tory,  yet  his 

children  were  Continentals.  He  was  a  well-meaning  man,  but  some  half- 
crazy  idea  about  the  Divine  Right  of  the  British  Pope,  George  the  Third, 
to  rule  this  Continent,  and  murder  and  burn  as  he  pleased — lurked  in  his 
brain,  and  kept  him  back  from  the  camp  of  Washington. 

And  now,  in  this  bright  morning  in  February,  he  had  come  here,  alone,  to 
think  the  matter  over. 

And  while  he  was  pondering  this  deep  matter  over,  whether  George  the 
Pope  or  George  the  Rebel  was  in  the  right — he  heard  the  tramp  of  a  war- 
steed  not  far  off,  and,  looking  between  the  trunks  of  the  pines,  he  saw  a 
man,  of  noble  presence,  dismount  from  his  grey  horse,  and  then  advance 
into  the  quiet  nook  of  moss-carpeted  rocks,  encircled  by  giant  pines. 

— And  now,  leaving  that  aged  Tory,  to  look  upon  this  man  for  himself, 
let  us  also  look  on  him,  with  our  own  eyes. 

As  he  comes  through  those  thick  boughs,  you  behold  a  man,  more  than 
six  feet  high,  with  his  kingly  form  enveloped  in  a  coarse  grey  overcoat ;  a 
chapeau  on  his  bold  forehead — and  beneath  the  skirts  of  that  grey  coat,  you 
may  see  the  military  boots  and  the  end  of  a  scabbard. 

And  who  is  this  man  of  kingly  presence,  who  comes  here  alone,  to  pace 
this  moss-covered  rock,  with  drooped  head  and  folded  arms  ? 

Come,  my  friends,  and  look  upon  him — let  me  show  you — not  this  figure 
of  mist  and  frost-work,  which  some  historians  have  called  WASHINGTON — 
but  Washington,  the  living,  throbbing,  flesh  and  blood,  Washington  ! — Yea, 
WASHINGTON  THE  MAN. 


108  THE   WISSAHIKON. 

Look  upon  him,  as  he  paces  that  moss-covered  rock — see  that  eye  burn 
that  muscular  chest  heave  under  the  folded  arms. 

Ah,  he  is  thinking  of  Valley  Forge !  Of  the  bloody  foot-prints  in  the 
snow — of  those  three  hideous  figures  that  sit  down  in  the  huts  of  Valley 
Forge  together — Disease,  Starvation,  and  Nakedness  ! 

Look,  as  those  dark  thoughts  crowd  on  his  soul,  he  falls  on  his  knees,  he 
prays  the  God  of  Heaven  to  take  his  life,  as  an  offering  for  the  freedom  of 
his  native  land  ! 

And  as  that  prayer  startles  the  still  woods,  that  grey  coat  falls  open,  and 
discloses  the  blue  and  gold  uniform — the  epaulette  and  the  sword-hilt. 

Then  the  agony  of  that  man,  praying  there  in  the  silent  woods — praying 
for  his  country,  now  bleeding  in  her  chains — speaks  out,  in  the  flashing  of 
the  eye,  in  the  beaded  sweat,  dripping  from  the  brow  ! 

— Ah,  kings  of  the  world,  planning  so  cooly  your  schemes  of  murder, 
come  here,  and  look  at  George  Washington,  as  he  offers  his  life,  a  sacrifice 
for  his  country ! 

Ah,  George  of  England,  British  Pope,  and  good-natured  Idiot,  that  you 
are,  now  counting,  in  your  royal  halls  how  many  more  men  it  will  take  to 
murder  a  few  thousand  peaceful  farmers,  and  make  a  nation  drink  your  tea, 
come  here  to  this  rock  of  the  Wissahikon,  and  see,  King  and  Pope  as  you 
are,  George  Washington  in  council  with  his  God ! 

My  friends,  I  can  never  think  of  that  man  in  the  wilds  of  Wissahikon — 
praying  there,  alone :  praying  for  his  country,  with  the  deep  agony  in  his 
heart  and  on  his  brow,  without  also  thinking  of  that  dark  night  in  Gethse- 
rnane,  when  the  blood-drops  startled  from  the  brow  of  Jesus,  the  Blessed 
Redeemer,  as  he  plead  for  the  salvation  of  the  world  ! 

Now  look  !  As  Washington  kneels  there,  on  that  moss-covered  rock, 
from  those  green  boughs  steps  forth  another  form — tall  as  his  own — clad  in 
a  coarse  grey  coat,  with  the  boots  and  scabbard  seen  below  its  skirts,  with 
the  chapeau  upon  his  brow. 

That  stranger  emerges  from  the  boughs — stands  there  unperceived,  gazing 
in  silence  upon  the  kneeling  warrior. 

A  moment  passes  ! 

Look!  Washington  has  risen  to  his  feet — he  confronts  the  stranger. 

Now,  as  that  stranger,  with  a  slight  bow,  uncovers  his  forehead,  tell  me, 
did  you  ever  see  a  stronger  or  stranger  resemblance  between  two  men  than 
between  these  two,  who  now  confront  each  other  in  silence,  under  the  shade 
of  those  dark  pines  ? 

The  same  heighth,  breadth  of  chest,  sinewy  limbs,  nay,  almost  the  same 
faces, — save  that  the  face  of  the  stranger,  sharper  in  outline,  lacks  that  calm 
consciousness  of  a  great  soul,  which  stamps  the  countenance  of  Washington. 

That  resemblance  is  most  strange — their  muscular  forms  are  clad  in  the 
same  coarse  grey  coat — their  costume  is  alike — yet  hold 

The  stranger  throws   open   his   overcoat — you   behold   that    hangman'* 


THE   TEMPTATION    OF    WASHINGTON.  109 

dress,  that  British  uniform,  flashing  with  gold  and  stars  !  Washington  starts 
hack,  and  lays  his  hand  upon  his  sword. 

And  as  these  two  men,  so  strangely  alike,  meet  there  by  accident,  undel 
that  canopy  of  boughs, — one  wandering  from  Valley  Forge,  one  from  Phila 
delphia — let  me  tell  you  at  once,  that  the  stranger  is  none  other  than  the 
Master  Butcher  of  the  Idiot-king — Sir  William  Howe. 

Yes,  there  they  meet,  the  one  the  impersonation  of  Freedom — the  other 
the  tinselled  lacquey  of  a  Tyrant's  Will ! 

We  will  listen  to  their  conversation :  it  is  brief,  but  important. 

For  a  moment,  the  British  General  stood  spell-bound  before  the  man 
whom  he  had  crossed  the  ocean  to  entrap,  and  bring  home ;  the  Rebel,  who 
had  lifted  his  hand  against  the  Right  Divine  of  the  British  Pope!  To  that 
British  General  there  was  something  awful  about  the  soldier  who  could  talk 
with  his  God,  as  Washington  had  talked  a  moment  ago. 

"I  cannot  be  mistaken,"  at  last  said  Sir  William  Howe;  "I  behold  be 
fore  me  the  chieftain  of  the  Rebel  army,  Mister  Washington?" 

Washington  coldly  bowed  his  head. 

u  Then  this  is  a  happy  hour  !  For  we  together  can  give  peace  and  free 
dom  to  this  land  !" 

At  this  word  Washington  started  with  surprise — advanced  a  step — and 
then  exclaimed — 

"And  who,  sir,  are  you  that  thus  boldly  promise  peace  and  freedom  to 
rny  country  ?" 

"The  commander  of  his  Majesty's  forces  in  America  !"  said  Howe,  ad 
vancing  along  that  wood-hidden  rock  towards  Washington.  «» And  oh,  sir, 
let  me  tell  you  that  the  king,  my  master,  has  heard  of  your  virtues,  which 
alone  dignifies  the  revolt  with  the  name  of  a  war,  and  it  is  to  you  he  looks 
for  the  termination  of  this  most  disastrous  contest." 

Then  Washington,  whose  pulse  had  never  quickened  before  all  the  pano 
ply  of  British  arms,  felt  his  heart  flutter  in  his  bosom,  as  that  great  boon  was 
before  his  eyes — peace  and  freedom  to  his  native  land  ! 

"  Yes,"  continued  Howe,  advancing  another  step,  "  my  king  looks  to  you 
for  the  termination  of  this  unnatural  war.  Let  rebellion  once  be  crushed — 
let  the  royal  name  be  finally  established  by  your  influences,  and  then,  sir, 
behold  the  gratitude  of  King  George  to  Mister  Washington." 

As  he  spoke,  he  placed  in  the  hands  of  Washington  a  massive  parch 
ment — sealed  with  the  broad  seal  of  England,  signed  with  the  manuel  of 
King  George. 

Washington  took  the  parchment — opened  it — read — his  face  did  not 
change  a  muscle. 

And  yet  that  parchment  named  Mister  George  Washington  "  GEORGE 
DUKE  WASHING'JON,  OF  MOUNT  VERNON,  our  well-beloved  servant,  VICEROY 
OF  AMERICA  !" 

Here  was  a  boon  for  the  Virginia  planter — here  was  a  title  and  here  a 


110  THE   WJSSAHIKON. 

power  for  the  young  man,  who  was  one  day  struggling  ft  r  his  life  away 
there  arnid  floating  ice  on  the  dark  Allegheny  river. 

For  a  moment,  the  face  of  Washington  was  buried  in  that  parchment, 
and  then,  in  a  low,  deep  voice,  he  spoke-— 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  he  said,  "  of  the  ten  thousand  brave  men  who 
have  been  massacred  in  this  quarrel.  I  have  been  thinking  of  the  dead  of 
Bunker  Hill — Lexington — Quebec — Trenton — Yes,  the  dead  of  Saratoga — 
Brandy  wine — German  town " 

**  And,"  cried  Howe,  startling  forward,  "  you  will  put  an  end  to  this 
unhappy  quarrel?" 

"  And  your  king,"  continued  Washington,  with  a  look  and  tone  that  would 
have  cut  into  a  heart  of  marble,  "  would  have  me  barter  the  bones  of  the 
dead  for  a  ribbon  and  a  title  !" 

And  then — while  Howe  shrunk  cowering  back — that  Virginia  planter, 
Washington,  crushed  that  parchment  into  the  sod,  with  the  heel  of  his  war 
rior  boot Yes,  trampled  that  title,  that  royal  name,  into  one  mass  of 

rags  and  dust. 

"  That  is  my  answer  to  your  king !" 

And  then  he  stood  with  scorn  on  his  brow,  and  in  his  eye,  his  outstretched 
arm  pointing  at  that  minion  of  King  George. 

Wasn't  that  a  picture  for  the  pencil  of  an  angel  ?  And  now,  that  British 
General,  recovering  from  his  first  surprise,  grew  red  as  his  uniform  with 
rage. 

"  Your  head  !"  he  gasped,  clenching  his  hand,  "  your  head  will  yet  red 
den  the  Traitor's  block  !'' 

Then  Washington's  hand  sought  his  sword — then  his  fierce  spirit  awoke 
within  him — it  was  his  first  impulse  to  strike  that  braggart  quivering  into 
the  dust. 

But  in  a  moment  he  grew  calm. 

"  Yours  is  a  good  and  great  king,"  he  said,  with  his  usual  stern  tone* 
"  At  first  he  is  determined  to  sweep  a  whole  Continent  with  but  five  thou 
sand  men,  but  he  soon  finds  that  his  five  thousand  men  must  swell  to  twenty- 
five  thousand  before  he  can  ever  begin  his  work  of  murder.  Then  he 
sacrifices  his  own  subjects  by  thousands — and  butchers  peaceful  farmers  by 
tens  of  thousands — and  yet  his  march  of  victory  is  not  even  begun.  Then, 
if  he  conquers  the  capital  city  of  the  Continent,  victory  is  sure  '  Behold ! 
the  city  is  in  his  grasp,  yet  still  the  hosts  of  freedom  defy  him.  even  from 
the  huts  of  Valley  Forge  ! 

"  And  now,  as  a  last  resource,  your  king  comes  to  the  man  whose  head 
yesterday  was  sought,  with  a  high  reward,  to  grace  the  gates  of  London — 
he  offers  that  Rebel  a  Dukedom — a  vice  regal  sceptre  !  And  yet  that  Rebel 
tramples  the  Dukedom  into  the  dust — that  Rebel  crushes  into  atoms  the 
name  of  such  a  king." 

Ah,  never  spaniel  skulked  from  the  kick  of  his  master  as   that  General 


WASHINGTON    AS    DUKE,    KING   AND    REBEL.  in 

Howe  cringeil  away  from  the  presence  of  Washington — mounted  his  horse 
— was  gone  ! 

One  word  with  regard  to  the  aged  Tory,  who  beheld  this  scene  from 
yonder  bushes,  with  alternate  wonder,  admiration,  and  fear. 

That  Tory  went  home '•  I  have  seen  George  Washington  at  prayer," 

he  said  to  his  wife :  "  the  man  who  can  trample  upon  the  name  of  a  king, 
as  he  did — pray  to  God  as  he  prayed,  that  man  cannot  be  a  Rebel  or  a  bad 
man.  To-morrow,  I  will  join  my  sons  at  Valley  Forge  !"* 

V.— WASHINGTON   AS    DUKE,  KING    AND    REBEL. 

WE  have  seen  Washington  and  Howe  stand  face  to  face  on  the  cliff  of 
Wissahikon ;  we  have  seen  the  British  General  offer  the  American  leader  a 
ducal  title,  a  vice-regal  sway  as  the  reward  of  treason. 

Now  let  us  behold  four  scenes  which  arise  to  our  minds  from  the  con 
templation  of  this  Legend.  These  scenes  are  fraught  with  a  deep  mystery, 
a  sublime  and  holy  moral. 

The  first  scene  ! 

We  stand  in  the  streets  of  a  magnificent  city.  A  dense  crowd  darkens 
the  avenues  leading  to  yonder  palace.  That  palace,  which  rises  over  the 
heads  of  the  living  mass,  like  a  solitary  mountain  amid  ocean  waves. 

There  are  bands  of  armed  men  around  that  palace — look  !  How  the 
sun  glitters  over  the  red  uniforms,  over  the  lines  of  bayonets,  over  the 
thousand  ilags,  that  wave  in  the  summer  air. 

And  there,  high  over  all,  from  the  loftiest  dome  of  that  palace,  one  single 
broad  banner  tosses  slowly  and  lazily  upon  the  breeze — look,  its  wide 
shadow  is  cast  upon  the  multitude  below.  That  is  the  Red  Cross  Banner 
of  England. 

And  now  every  eye  is  fixed  upon  that  palace  door — a  great  potentate 
will  shortly  come  forth — the  mob  are  anxious  to  look  upon  him,  to  shout 
his  name. 

And  now,  as  the  drums  roll  out  their  thunder,  as  the  voice  of  cannon  bids 
him  welcome — he  comes  ! 


*  This  tradition,  prevails  not  only  among  the  rock-bound  cliffs  of  the  Wissahikon, 
but  amid  the  pastoral  glades  of  Brandy  wine.  A  different  version,  states  that  the  inci 
dent  occurred,  in  the  darkest  hour  of  the  Battle  of  Brandywine,  on  a  beautiful  knoll, 
which  arises  from  the  bosom  of  the  meadow,  crowned  with  grand  old  trees.  In  this 
shape,  I  have  incorporated  it,  in  the  pages  of  my  novel — "  Blanche  of  Brandywine." 
In  the  present  work,  I  have  given  it,  with  the  locality  of  the  Wissahikon,  and  the 
dark  time  of  Valley  Forge.  Nothing  is  more  common,  in  the  history  of  the  Revolu 
tion,  than  to  hear  the  same  tradition,  recited  by  five  different  persons,  with  as  many 
changes  of  time  and  place.  Even  the  precise  spot,  on  which  La  Fayette,  received  his 
wound  at  Brandywine,  is  a  matter  of  doubt.  Two  aged  men  pointed  out  to  me.  in  the 
course  ot  my  pilgrimage  over  the  field,  two  localities,  for  this  incident,  with  the  em 
phatic  remark — "  Here's  where  La  Layette  received  his  wound.  He  said  so,  hirn 
self,  when  he  visited  the  place  in  1824."  These  localities,  were  only  four  mile* 
apart. 


112  THE   WiSSAHlKON. 

Yes,  as  women  press  forward,  lifting  their  babes  en  high,  eager  to  be- 
hold  him  ;  as  old  men  cl'mb  those  trees,  mad  with  anxiety,  to  catch  but  on« 
glimpse  of  his  form,  he  somes,  the  Viceroy  of  America  ! 

Yes,  from  that  palace  door,  environed  by  guards  and  courtiers,  fine  gen 
tlemen  and  gay  ladies,  he  comes,  that  man  of  kingly  presence  ;  he  stands 
there,  for  the  moment,  with  the  sun  playing  over  his  noble  brow,  glittering 
along  his  vice-regal  robes.  How  the  thunder  of  the  cannon,  the  clang  of 
drum  and  bugle,  the  hurrahs  of  the  mob,  go  mingling  up  to  Heaven  in  one 
mad  chorus.  And  that  great  prince  standing  there  under  the  shadow  of  the 
British  banner  ;  that  is  George,  Duke  Washington,  Viceroy  of  America. 

Yes,  that  is  what  Washington  might  have  been,  had  he  betrayed  his 
country. 

Now  we  will  change  the  scene  : 

We  stand  in  the  ante-chamber  of  the  British  King. 

Here,  in  this  lofty  hall,  adorned  with  trophies  from  all  the  world — tro 
phies  from  plundered  Ireland — from  ravaged  Hindoostan — from  down-trod 
den  America — here,  under  that  Red  Cross  Banner,  which  like  a  canopy, 
reddens  over  that  ceiling ;  here  are  gathered  a  glittering  party  of  noble  lords 
and  ladies,  anxious  to  behold  a  strange  scene ;  the  meeting  between  King 
George  and  Duke  Washington,  that  man  who  yesterday  was  a  rebel,  but 
now  having  returned  to  his  duty  as  a  loyal  subject,  is  about  to  be  presented 
to  his  master. 

While  all  is  suspense,  two  doors  at  opposite  ends  of  that  wide  hall,  are 
flung  open  by  gentlemen  ushers  ;  one  announces  "  His  Majesty  !" 

And  a  decrepit  man  with  a  vacant  eye — a  hanging  lip — a  gouty  form, 
mocked  with  purple  robes,  hobbles  slowly  forth. 

That  other  gentleman  in  livery  announces  : — "  His  Grace,  Washington, 
Duke  of  Mount  Vernon,  Viceroy  of  America  !" 

And  from  that  door  comes  a  man  of  magnificent  form,  high  bearing, 
kiagly  look.  He  is  clad — oh,  shame  ! — in  the  scarlet  uniform — his  breast 
w.iving  with  ribbons  and  glittering  with  stars. 

And  that  noble  man  kneels  in  the  centre  of  that  crowd,  kisses  the  gouty 
hand  of  that  King.  The  good-humored  idiot  murmurs  something  about  for 
giving  the  rebel  Washington,  because  that  rebel  has  become  a  loyal  subject, 
and  brought  back  a  nation  to  the  feet  of  the  British  King. 

And  there  kneels  Duke  Washington,  and  there  stands  the  Protestant 
Pope  of  Britain. 

— Had  Washington  accepted  the  parchment  from  General  Howe,  some 
thing  like  this  scene  would  have  been  the  presentation  at  Court. 

Or  change  the  scene  again : 

What  see  you  now  ?  Independence  Hall  transformed  into  a  monarch's 
reception  room,  and  there,  surrounded  by  his  courtiers,  the  crown  on  nis 
brow,  stands  George  the  First,  King  of  America. 

The  glitter  of  arms  flashes  o'er  Independence  Square  ;  the  huzzas  of  the 


WASHINGTON    AS   LUKE,    KING    AND    REBEL.  113 

mob  burst  into  the  sky  ;  there  is  joy  to-day  in  Philadelphia — the  aristocracy 
are  glad — for  George  Washington,  forsaking  the  fact  of  republican  truth,  has 
yielded  to  thfc  wishes  of  servile  friends,  yielded  to  the  huzzas  of  the  mob 
and  while  Independence  Bell  tolls  the  death  of  freedom,  has  taken  to  him 
self  a  crown  and  a  throne. 

So,  my  friends,  would  one  dark  page  in  history  have  read,  had  not  George 
Washington  been  George  Washington  all  his  life. 

And  now  let  us  look  for  a  moment  at  the  other  side  of  the  picture. 

Suppose  instead  of  the  cry  uttered  by  the  watchman  one  night  as  the 
State  House  struck  one — "  One  o'clock  and  Cornwallis  is  taken  !" — he  had 
shrieked  forth — 

"  One  o'clock,  and  George  Washington  is  taken  !" 

Then  would  history  have  chronicled  a  scene  like  this  : 

One  summer  day  an  immense  crowd  gathered  on  Tyburn  Hill.  Yes. 
that  immense  crowd  spread  far  along  the  street,  over  the  house  tops,  clung 
to  the  trees,  or  darkened  over  the  church  steeples.  That  day  London  had 
given  forth  its  livery  and  its  rags — its  nobility  and  its  rabble.  St.  Giles, 
that  foul  haunt  of  pollution,  sent  its  thieves  and  its  beggars — St.  James,  the 
home  of  royalty,  sent  its  princes  and  its  lords,  to  swell  the  numbers  of  this 
vast  crowd  which  now  darkened  far  and  wide  over  Tyburn  Hill. 

And  in  the  centre  of  this  wide  theatre — whose  canopy  is  yonder  blue 
heaven — whose  walls  are  human  faces — there  glooms  a  scaffold  covered 
with  drooping  folds  of  black. 

There,  on  that  scaffold,  stand  three  persons  : — That  grim  figure,  with 
face  muffled  in  crape,  and  the  axe  in  his  hand,  that  is  the  executioner. 

There  is  a  block  by  his  side,  and  around  that  block  is  scattered  a  heap 
of  saw  dust. 

That  saw  dust  has  drunk  the  blood  of  men  like  Algernon  Sidney — but 
to-day  will  drink  the  blood  of  a  greater  rebel  than  he  ! 

By  the  side  of  that  executioner  stands  another  figure  in  black,  not  a  hang 
man,  but  a  priest,  come  to  pray  for  the  traitor. 

And  the  third  figure  ? 

See,  how  he  towers  above  priest  and  hangman,  his  blue  uniform  still  en 
robing  his  proud  figure — a  calm  resolution  still  sitting  like  a  glory  upon  his 
brow  ! 

Can  you  tell  me  the  name  of  this  traitor  ? 

Why  you  must  be  a  stranger  in  London  not  to  know  his  story.  Why 
the  rabble  in  the  street  have  it  at  their  tongues'  end — and  those  noble  ladies 
looking  from  yonder  windows — they  shed  some  tears  when  they  speak  it. 

That  man  standing  on  the  scaffold  is  the  great  rebel,  who  was  captured  at 
Yorktown — brought  home  in  chains — tried  in  Parliament — sentenced  io 
death — and  to-day  he  dies. 

And  now  look,  the  priest  approaches  ;  he  begs  that  calm-faced  traitor  to 
repent  of  his  treason  before  he  dies, — to  be  reconciled  to  his  Kin<r,  the  gooa 


114  THE    WISSAHIKON. 

King  George ;  lo  repent  of  his  wicked  deeds  at  Trenton,  Monmouth,  Ge*. 
mantown,  Brandy  wine,  and  Valley  Forge 

And  as  the  priest  doles  out  his  store  of  set-phrases,  look  how  that  nobie- 
looking  rebel  pushes  him  aside  with  a  quiet  scorn. 

Then,  with  one  prayer  to  God,  with  one  thought  of  his  country,  now 
bleeding  in  her  chains,  he  kneels — his  head  on  the  block. 

How  awfully  still  that  crowd  has  become.     The  executioner  draws  near 
Look  !  ne  strips  that  blue  coat  from  the  rebel's  shoulders — epaulettes,  sword- 
belt  and  sword — he  tears  them  all  from  his  manly  form.     With  his  rile 
hands  he  breaks  that  sword  in  twain — for  it  is  a  rebel's  sword. 

Look  !  he  feels  the  edge  of  the  axe — still  that  noble  rebel,  but  half  dressed, 
is  kneeling  there,  in  the  light  of  the  summer  sun. 

That  axe  glimmers  into  light. 

Now  hold  your  breath — oh,  horror  ! — it  falls. — There  is  a  stream  of 
blood  pouring  down  into  the  saw  dust — there  is  a  human  head  rolling  on  the 


scaffold  ! 


And  now  look  again  ! 

As  that  vast  crowd  breathe  in  gasps,  the  executioner,  with  crape  over  his 
face,  raises  the  head  into  light — and  while  the  features  yet  quiver,  while  the 
blood  falls  pattering  down  upon  the  mangled  corse — 

Hark — do  you  hear  his  brutal  shout? 

"  Behold  the  head  of  George  Washington,  the  rebel  and  traitor  !" 

Thank  God  !  that  page  was  never  written  in  history  /  And  who  will 
dare  to  say  that  this  picture  is  too  strongly  drawn  ?  Ah,  my  friends,  had 
my  Lord  Cornwallis  been  the  victor  at  Yorktown,  had  the  Continental 
armies  been  crushed,  then  these  streets  would  have  been  too  narrow  to  con 
tain  the  gibbets  erected  by  the  British  King. 

Ah  !  those  English  lords  and  ladies — these  English  bards  are  now  too 
glad  to  lisp  the  praises  of  Washington. 

But  had  the  American  armies  been  crushed,  then  would  the  head  of 
Washington  have  been  nailed  to  the  door-post  of  Independence  Hall. 

And  now  that  you  have  seen  what  Washington  might  have  been  as  the 
Duke,  the  Viceroy,  the  King — or  how  dark  would  have  been  his  fate  as  the 
rebel,  the  crushed  and  convicted  traitor — let  us  look  a!.  HIM  AS  HE  is. 

Is.  For  he  is  not  dead  !  For  he  will  never  die  !  For  he  lives — lives 
at  this  hour,  in  a  fuller  and  bolder  life  than  ever. 

Where'er  there  is  a  hearthstone  in  our  land,  there  Washington  shines  its 
patron  saint. 

WTherever  a  mother  can  teach  her  child  some  name,  to  write  in  its  heart 
and  wear  there  forever  next  to  the  name  of  the  Redeemer,  that  name  is 
Washington. 

Yes,  we  are  like  those  men  who  dig  in  the  deep  mines  of  Norway — 
there  in  the  centre  of  the  earth  forever  burns  one  bright  undying  flame — nc 
one  asks  who  first  built  the  tire — but  all  know  that  it  has  burned  for  ages — 


THE   HERO    WOMAN.  115 

all,  from  father  to  son,  make  it  a  holy  duty  to  heap  fuel  on  that  fire,  and 
watch  it  as  though  it  were  a  god. 

The  name  of  Washington  is  that  eternal  fire  built  in  every  American 
heart,  and  burning  on  when  the  night  is  darkest,  and  blazing  brightest  when 
the  gloom  is  most  terrible. 

So  let  that  altar  of  flame  burn  and  burn  on  forever,  a  living  testimonial 
of  that  man  who  too  proud  to  be  a  Duke,  or  Viceroy,  or  King, — struck 
higher  and  bolder  in  his  ambition,  struck  at  that  place  in  the  American  heart 
second  in  glory,  and  only  second,  be  it  spoken  with  awful  reverence — to  the 
eternal  MAJESTY  OF  GOD. 

VI.— THE    HERO    WOMAN. 

IN  the  shadows  of  the  Wissahikon  woods,  not  more  than  half  a  mile 
from  the  Schuylkill,  there  stood  in  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  a  quaint  old 
fabric,  built  of  mingled  logs  and  stone,  and  encircled  by  a  palisaded  wall.  It 
had  been  erected  in  the  earlier  days  of  William  Penn, — perhaps  some  years 
before  the  great  apostle  of  peace  first  trod  our  shores, — as  a  block-house,  in 
tended  for  defence  against  tiie  Indians. 

And  now  it  stood  with  its  many  roofs,  its  numerous  chrmneys,  its  massive 
square  windows,  its  varied  front  of  logs  and  stone,  its  encircling  wall, 
through  which  admittance  was  gained  by  a  large  and  stoutly-built  gate :  it 
stood  in  the  midst  of  the  wood,  with  age-worn  trees  enclosing  its  veteran 
outline  on  every  side. 

From  its  western  window  you  might  obtain  a  glimpse  of  the  Schuylkill 
waves,  while  a  large  casement  in  the  southern  front,  commanded  a  view  of 
the  winding  road,  as  it  sunk  out  of  view,  under  the  shade  of  thickly-clustered 
boughs,  into  a  deep  hollow,  not  more  than  one  hundred  yards  from  the 
mansion. 

Here,  from  the  southern  casement,  on  one  of  those  balmy  summer  days 
which  look  in  upon  the  dreary  autumn,  toward  the  close  of  November,  a 
farmer's  daughter  was  gazing  with  dilating  eyes  and  half-clasped  hands. 

Well  might  she  gaze  earnestly  to  the  south,  and  listen  with  painful  inten 
sity  for  the  slightest  sound  !  Her  brothers  were  away  with  the  army  of 
Washington,  and  her  father,  a  grim  old  veteran — he  stood  six  feet  and  three 
inches  in  his  stockings — who  had  manifested  his  love  for  the  red-coat  in 
vaders,  in  many  a  desperate  contest,  had  that  morning  left  her  alone  in  the 
old  mansion,  alone  in  this  small  chamber,  in  charge  of  some  ammunition  in 
tended  for  a  band  of  brave  farmers,  about  to  join  the  hosts  of  freedom. 
Even  as  she  stood  there,  gazing  out  of  the  southern  window,  a  faint  glimpse 
of  sunlight  from  the  faded  leaves  above,  pouring  over  her  mild  face,  shaded 
by  clustering  brown  hair,  there,  not  ten  paces  from  her  side,  were  seven 
•oaded  rifles  and  a  keg  of  powder. 


llf.  THE   WISSAHIKON. 

Leaning  from  the  casement,  she  listened  with  every  nerve  quivering  with 
suspense,  to  the  shouts  of  combatants,  the  hurried  tread  of  armed  men  echo 
ing  from  the  south. 

There  was  something  very  beautiful  in  that  picture  !  The  form  of  the 
young  girl,  framed  by  the  square  massive  window,  the  contrast  between  the 
rough  timbers,  that  enclosed  her,  and  that  rounded  face,  the  lips  parting,  the 
hazel  eye  dilating,  and  the  cheek  warming  and  flushing  with  hope  and  fear; 
there  was  something  very  beautiful  in  that  picture,  a  young  girl  leaning  from 
the  window  of  an  old  mansion,  with  her  brown  hair  waving  in  glossy 
masses  around  her  face  ! 

Suddenly  the  shouts  to  the  south  grew  nearer,  and  then,  emerging  from 
the  deep  hollow,  there  came  an  old  man,  running  at  full  speed,  yet  every 
few  paces,  turning  round  to  fire  the  rifle,  which  he  loaded  as  he  ran.  He 
was  pursued  by  a  party  of  ten  or  more  British  soldiers,  who  came  rushing 
on,  their  bayonets  fixed,  as  if  to  strike  their  victim  down,  ere  he  advanced 
ten  paces  nearer  the  house. 

On  and  on  the  old  man  came,  while  his  daughter,  quivering  with  sus 
pense,  hung  leaning  from  the  window ; — he  reaches  the  block-house  gate — 
look  !  He  is  surrounded,  their  muskets  are  levelled  at  his  head ;  he  is 
down,  down  at  their  feet,  grappling  for  his  life  !  But  look  again  ! — He 
dashes  his  foes  aside,  with  one  bold  movement  he  springs  through  the  gate  ; 
an  instant,  and  it  is  locked  ;  the  British  soldiers,  mad  with  rage,  gaze  upon 
the  high  wall  of  logs  and  stone,  and  vent  their  anger  in  drunken  curses. 

Now  look  to  yonder  window  !  Where  the  young  girl  stood  a  moment 
ago,  quivering  with  suspense,  as  she  beheld  her  father  struggling  for  his  life, 
now  stands  that  old  man  himself,  his  brow  bared,  his  arm  grasping  the  rifle, 
while  his  grey  hairs  wave  back  from  his  wrinkled  and  blood-dabbled  face ! 
That  was  a  fine  picture  of  an  old  veteran,  nerved  for  his  last  fight ;  a  stout 
warrior,  preparing  for  his  death-struggle. 

Death-struggle  ?  Yes  ! — for  the  old  man,  Isaac  Wampole,  had  dealt  too 
many  hard  blows  among  the  British  soldiers,  tricked,  foiled,  cheated  them 
too  often  to  escape  now  !  A  few  moments  longer,  and  they  would  be  re 
inforced  by  a  strong  party  of  refugees  ;  the  powder,  the  arms,  in  the  old 
block-house,  perhaps  that  daughter  herself,  was  to  be  their  reward.  There 
was  scarcely  a  hope  for  the  old  man,  and  yet  he  had  determined  to  make  a 
desperate  fight. 

"  We  must  bluff  off  these  rascals  !"  he  said,  with  a  grim  smile,  turning  to 
his  child.  "  Now,  Bess,  my  girl,  when  I  fire  this  rifle,  do  you  hand  me 
another,  and  so  on,  until  the  whole  eight  shots  are  fired  !  That  will  keep 
them  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  for  a  few  moments  at  least,  and  then  we 
will  have  to  trust  to  God  for  the  rest !" 

Look  down  there,  and  see,  a  hand  stealing  over  the  od^c  of  the  wall  ! 
The  old  man  levels  his  piece — that  British  trooper  falls  back  with  a  crushed 
har.'J  upon  his  comrades'  heads  ! 


THE   HERO    WOMAN.  117 

No  longer  quivering  with  suspense,  but  grown  suddenly  firm,  that  young 
girl  passes  a  loaded  rifle  to  the  veteran's  grasp,  and  silently  awaits  the 
result. 

For  a  moment  all  is  silent  below  ;  the  British  bravoes  are  somewhat 
loath  to  try  that  wall,  when  a  stout  old  "  Rebel,"  rifle  in  hand,  is  looking 
from  yonder  window  !  There  is  a  pause — low,  deep  murmurs — they  are 
holding  a  council ! 

A  moment  is  sjone,  and  nine  heads  are  thrust  above  the  wall  at  once — 
hark  !     One — two — three  ! — The  old  veteran  has  fired  three  shots,  there  are 
three  dying  men,  grovelling  in  the  yard,  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  wall ! 
"  Quick,  Bess,  the  rifles  !' 

And  the  brave  girl  passes  the  rifles  to  her  father's  grasp  ;  there  are  four 
shots,  one  after  the  other ;  three  more  soldiers  fell  back,  like  weights  of  lead 
upon  the  ground,  and  a  single  red-coat  is  seen,  slowly  mounting  to  the  top  of 
the  wall,  his  eye  fixed  upon  the  hall  door,  which  he  will  force  ere  a  moment 
is  gone  ! 

Now  the  last  ball  is  fired,  the  old  man  stands  there,  in  that  second-story 
window,  his  hands  vainly  grasping  for  another  loaded  rifle  !  At  this  mo 
ment,  the  wounded  and  dying  band  below,  are  joined  by  a  party  of  some 
twenty  refugees,  who,  clad  in  their  half-robber  uniform,  came  rushing  from 
the  woods,  and  with  one  bound  are  leaping  for  the  summit  of  the  waU  ! 
"  Quick,  Bess,  my  rifle  !" 

And  look  there — even  while  the  veteran  stood  looking  out  upon  his  foes, 
the  brave  girl — for,  slender  in  form,  and  wildly  beautiful  in  face,  she  is  a 
brave  girl,  a  Hero-Woman — had  managed,  as  if  by  instinctive  impulse,  to 
load  a  rifle.  She  handed  it  to  her  father,  and  then  loaded  another,  and  an 
other  . — Wasn't  that  a  beautiful  sight  ?  A  fair  young  girl,  grasping  powder 
and  ball,  with  the  ramrod  rising  and  falling  in  her  slender  fingers  ! 

Now  look  down  to  the  wall  again  !  The  refugees  are  clambering  over 
its  summit — again  that  fatal  aim — again  a  horrid  cry,  and  another  wounded 
man  toppling  down  upon  his  dead  and  dying  comrades  ! 

But  now  look  ! — A  smoke  rises  there,  a  fire  blazes  up  around  the  wall  ; 
they  have  fired  the  gate.  A  moment,  and  the  bolt  and  the  lock  will  be 
burnt  from  its  sockets — the  passage  will  be  free  !  Now  is  the  fiery  moment 
of  the  old  man's  trial !  While  his  brave  daughter  loads,  he  continues  to 
fire,  with  that  deadly  aim,  but  now — oh  horror  !  He  falls,  he  falls,  with  a 

musquet  ball  driven  into  his  breast the  daughter's  outstretched  arms 

receive  the  father,  as  with  the  blood  spouting  from  his  wound,  he  topples 
back  from  the  window. 

Ah,  it  is  a  sad  and  terrible  picture  ! 

That  old  man,  writhing  there,  on  the  oaken  floor,  the  young  daughtei 
bending  over  him,  the  light  from  the  window  streaming  over  her  face,  over 
her  father's  grey  hairs,  while  the  ancient  furniture  of  the  small  chamber 
affords  a  dim  back-ground  to  the  scene  ! 

* 


118  THE   WISSAHIKON. 

Now  hark!— The  sound  of  axes,  at  the  hall  door— shouts  -  hurrahs 
curses  ! 

««  We  have  the  old  rebel,  at  last !" 

The  old  man  raises  his  head  at  that  sound  ;  makes  an  effort  to  rise ; 
clutches  for  a  rifle,  and  then  falls  bick  again,  his  eyes  glaring,  as  the  fierce 
pain  of  that  wound  quivers  through  his  heart. 

Now  watch  the  movements  of  that  daughter.  Silently  she  loads  a  rifle, 
silently  she  rests  its  barrel  against  the  head  of  that  powder  keg,  and  then, 
placing  her  finger  on  the  trigger,  stands  over  her  father's  form,  while  the 
shouts  of  the  enraged  soldiers  come  thundering  from  the  stairs.  Yes,  they 
have  broken  the  hall  door  to  fragments,  they  are  in  possession  of  the  old 
block-house,  they  are  rushing  toward  that  chamber,  with  murder  in  their 
hearts,  and  in  their  glaring  eyes  !  Had  the  old  man  a  thousand  lives,  they 
were  not  worth  a  farthing's  purchase  now. 

Still  that  girl — grown  suddenly  white  as  the  'kerchief  round  he?  neck — 
stands  there,  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  the  rifle  in  her  hand,  its  dark 
tube  laid  against  the  powder-keg. 

The  door  is  burst  open — look  there !  Stout  forms  are  in  the  doorway, 
with  musquets  in  their  hands,  grim  faces  stained  with  blood,  glare  into  the 
room. 

Now,  as  if  her  very  soul  was  coined  into  the  words,  that  young  girl  with 
her  face  pale  as  ashes,  her  hazel  eye  glaring  with  deathly  light,  utters  this 
short  yet  meaning  speech — 

"  Advance  one  step  into  the  room,  and  I  will  fire  this  rifle  into  the  powder 
there  !" 

No  oath  quivers  from  the  lips  of  that  girl,  to  confirm  her  resolution,  but 
there  she  stands,  alone  with  her  wounded  father,  and  yet  not  a  soldier  dare 
cross  the  threshold  !  Embrued  as  they  are  in  deeds  of  blood,  there  is  some 
thing  terrible  to  these  men  in  the  simple  words  of  that  young  girl,  who 
stands  there,  with  the  rifle  laid  against  the  powder-keg. 

They  stood  as  if  spell-bound,  on  the  threshold  of  that  chamber ! 
At  last  one  bolder  than  the  rest,  a  bravo,  whose  face  is  half-concealed  in 
a  thick  red  beard,  grasps  his  musquet,  and  levels  it  at  the  young   girl's 
breast ! 

"  Stand  back,  or  by ,  I  will  fire  !" 

Still  the  girl  is  firm  ;  the  bravo  advances  a  step,  and  then  starts  back. 
The  sharp  "  c/ic&"  of  that  rifle  falls  with  an  unpleasant  emphasis  upon 
his  ear. 

"  Bess,  I  am  dying,"  gasps  the  old  man,  faintly  extending  his  arms. 
14  Ha,  ha,  we  foiled  the  Britishers  '.  Come — daughter — kneel  here ;  kneel 
and  say  a  prayer  for  me,  and  let  me  feel  your  warm  breath  upon  my  face 

for  I  am  getting  cold O,  dark  and  cold  !" 

Look  ! — As  those  trembling  accents  fall  from  the  old  man's  tongue, 
those  fingers  unloose  their  hold  of  the  rifle — already  the  troopers  are  secure 


KING   GEORGE    IN    WESTMINSTER    ABBEY.  ny 

of  one  victim,  at  least,  a  young  and  beautiful  girl ;  for  affection  for  her  father, 
is  mastering  the  heroism  of  the  moment — look  !  She  is  about  to  spring 
into  his  arms  !  But  now  she  sees  her  danger  !  again  she  clutches  the  riile  ; 
again — although  her  father's  dying  accents  are  in  her  ears — stands  there, 
prepared  to  scatter  that  house  in  ruins,  if  a  single  rough  hand  assails  that 
veteran  form. 

There  are  a  few  brief  terrible  moments  of  suspense.  Then  a  hurried 
sound,  far  down  the  mansion  ;  then  a  contest  on  the  stairs  ;  then  the  echo 
of  rifle  shot  and  the  light  of  rifle  blaze  ;  then  those  ruffians  in  the  doorway, 
fall  crushed  before  the  strong  arms  of  Continental  soldiers.  Then  a  wild 
shriek  quivers  through  the  room,  and  that  young  girl — that  Hero- Woman, 
with  one  bound,  springs  forward  into  her  brothers'  arms,  and  nestles  there, 
while  her  dead  father — his  form  yet  warm — lays  with  fixed  eyeballs  upon 
the  floor. 

VII— KING  GEORGE   IN    WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

ONE  fine  summer  afternoon,  in  the  year  1780,  King  George  the  Third, 
of  Great  Britain,  defender  of  the  faith,  as  well  as  owner  of  a  string  of  other 
iitles,  as  long  as  a  hypocrite's  prayer,  took  a  quiet  stroll  through  the  dim 
cloisters  of  Westminster  Abbey. 

It  does  not  become  me  to  picture  that  magnificent  House  of  the  Dead, 
where  Royalty  sleeps  its  last  slumber,  as  soundly  as  though  it  had  never 
butchered  the  innocent  freeman,  or  robbed  the  orphan  of  her  bread,  while 
poor  Genius,  starved  and  kicked  while  living,  skulks  into  some  corner,  with 
a  marble  monument  above  its  tired  head. 

No !  We  will  leave  the  description  of  Westminster  Abbey  to  any  one  of 
the  ten  thousand  travellers,  who  depart  from  their  own  country — scarce 
knowing  whether  Niagara  is  in  New  York  or  Georgia — and  write  us  home 
such  delightful  long  letters  about  Kings  and  Queens,  and  other  grand  folks. 

No  !  All  we  have  to  do  is  to  relate  a  most  singular  incident,  which  hap 
pened  to  George  the  Third,  etc.,  etc.,  etc. — on  this  fine  summer  afternoon, 
in  the  year  of  our  Lord,  1780. 

Do  you  see  that  long,  gloomy  aisle,  walled  in  on  either  side  by  gorgeous 
tombs,  with  the  fretted  roof  above,  and  a  mass  of  red,  blue,  purple  and  gold 
pouring  in  on  the  marble  pavement,  through  the  discolored  window-panes, 
yonder  ?  Does  not  the  silence  of  this  lonely  aisle  make  you  afraid  ?  Do 
you  not  feel  that  the  dead  are  around,  about,  beneath,  above — nay,  in 
the  air  ? 

After  you  have  looked  well  at  this  aisle,  with  its  splendid  tombs,  its  mar 
ble  floor,  its  heavy  masses  of  shade  and  discolored  patches  of  light,  let  me 
ask  you  to  look  upon  the  figure,  which,  at  this  moment,  turns  the  corner 
of  yonder  monument. 

He  stands  aside  from  the  light,  yet  you  behold  every  outline  of  his  face 


120  THE   WISSAHIKON. 

and  form.  He  is  clad  in  a  coat  of  dark  purple  velvet,  faced  with  gold  lace 
His  breeches  are  of  a  pale  blue  satin  ;  his  stockings  flesh-colored,  and  of 
the  finest  silk.  There  is  a  jewelled  garter  around  his  right  leg.  His  white 
satin  vest  gleams  with  a  single  star.  His  shoes  glitter  with  diamonds  buckles, 
he  carries  a  richly-faced  hat  under  his  right  arm.  This  is  a  very  pretty 
dress:  and  I  am  sure  you  will  excuse  me  for  being  so  minute,  as  I  have 
the  greatest  respect  for  grand  folks. 

This  man — if  it  is  not  blasphemous  to  call  such  a  great  being  a  man — 
seems  prematurely  old.  His  face  does  not  strike  you  with  its  majesty  ;  for 
his  forehead  is  low,  the  pale  blue  eyes  bulge  out  from  their  sockets,  the 
lower  lip  hangs  down  upon  the  chin.  Indeed,  if  this  man  was  not  so  great 
a  being,  you  would  call  him  an  IDIOT. 

This,  in  fact,  is  George  the  Third,  King  of  Great  Britain,  Ireland  and 
France  ;  and  owner  of  a  string  of  other  titles,  who  rules  by  divine  right. 

As  he  stands  near  yonder  monument,  a  woman — dressed  in  faded  Mack 
— starts  from  behind  that  big  piece  of  sculptured  marble,  on  which  "  MERCY" 
appears,  in  the  act  of  bending  from  the  skies,  and  flings  herself  at  the  feet 
of  the  King. 

44  Mercy  !"  she  cries,  with  uplifted  hands. 

44  What — what — what?"  stammers  the  good  King.      44  What's  all  this?" 

44  My  son  committed  robbery,  some  two  months  ago.  He  robbed  pn  the 
highway  to  give  me  bread.  I  was  sick — famished — dying.  He  has  been 
condemned  to  death,  and  to-morrow  he  dies.  Mercy  for  the  widow's  son  ?" 

«  What — what— what?  Eh  ?    What's  this  ?     How  much  did  he  steal?" 

44  Only  ten  shillings  !    Only  ten  shillings  !   For  the  love  of  God,  mercy  ?" 

The  good  King  looked  upon  the  wan  face  and  pleading  eyes  of  that  poor 
woman,  and  said,  hurriedly — 

"  I  cannot  pardon  your  son.  If  I  pardon  the  thief,  I  may  as  well  pardon 
the  forger  and  murderer. — There — go,  good  woman  :  I  can  do  nothing 
for  you." 

The  good  King  turned  away,  leaving  the  insensible  form  of  the  widow 
stretched  out  upon  the  marble  floor.  He  would  have  pardoned  her  boy> 
but  there  were  some  two  or  three  hundred  crimes  punishable  with  death, 
from  the  petty  offence  of  killing  a  man  up  to  the  enormous  blasphemy  of 
shooting  a  rabbit  on  a  rich  man's  estate.  Therefore,  King  George  could  not 
pardon  one  of  these  crimes,  for,  do  you  mark,  the  hangman  once  put  down, 
there  is  an  end  of  all  law. 

•The  King,  I  like  to  call  grand  people  by  their  titles,  the  good  King — I 
also  like  to  call  him  good,  because,  do  you  see,  the  Archbishop  of  Canter 
bury  called  him  so,  in  his  sermon,  every  Sunday  morning — the  good  King 
turned  away,  leaving  the  poor  widow  insensible  on  the  floor. 

This  little  incident  had  somewhat  excited  him,  so  he  sank  down  upon  the 
corner  of  a  marble  slab,  and  bent  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  began  to  think. 

All  at  once,  he  felt  seized  by  invisible  hands,  and  borne,  with  the  speed 


KING    GEORGE   IN    WESTMINSTER   ABBEY.  )21 

of  light,  through  the  air  and  over  a  long  sweep  of  ocean  waves.  His  journey 
H  as  but  for  a  moment,  yet,  it  seemed  to  him,  that  he  had  traversed  thousands 
of  miles.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  again,  he  found  himself  standing  by  a 
road-side,  opposite  a  beautiful  little  cottage,  which,  with  a  garden  in  front, 
smiled  upon  the  view  from  a  grove  of  orchard  trees.  A  young  woman  with 
a  little  boy  by  her  side  and  a  baby  in  her  arms,  stood  in  the  cottage  door. 

The  King  could  not  admire  that  cottage  too  much,  with  its  trees  and 
flowers,  and,  as  for  that  rosy-cheeked  woman,  in  the  linsey  gown,  he  was 
forced  to  admit  to  himself  that  he  had  never  seen  anything  half  so  beautiful, 
even  in  the  Royal  family. 

While  the  King  was  looking  upon  the  young  woman  and  her  children,  lie 
heard  a  strange  noise,  and,  turning  his  head,  he  beheld  a  man  in  a  plain 
farmer's  coat,  with  a  gun  in  his  hand,  tottering  up  the  highway.  His  face 
was  very  pale,  and  as  he  walked  tremblingly  along,  the  blood  fell,  drop  by 
drop,  from  a  wound  near  his  heart,  upon  the  highway  dust. 

The  man  stumbled  along,  reached  the  garden  gate,  and  sprang  forward, 
with  a  bound,  towards  the  young  woman  and  her  children. 

"  Husband  !"  shrieked  the  young  woman. 

"  Father  !"  cried  the  little  boy. 

Even  the  baby  lifted  its  little  hands,  and  greeted  in  its  infant  tones  that 
wounded  man. 

Yet  the  poor  farmer  lay  there  at  the  feet  of  his  wife,  bleeding  slowly  to 
death.  The  young  woman  knelt  by  his  side,  kissing  him  on  the  forehead, 
and  placing  her  hand  over  the  wound,  as  if  to  stop  the  blood,  but  it  was  in 
vain.  The  red  current  started  from  his  mouth. 

The  good  King  lifted  his  eyes.  The  groans  of  the  dying  man,  the  shrieks 
of  the  wife,  the  screams  of  the  little  children,  sounded  like  voices  from  the 
dead.  At  last  his  feelings  overcome  him — 

"  Who,"  he  shouted,  "  who  has  done  this  murder?" 

As  he  spoke — as  if  in  answer  to  his  question — a  stout,  muscular  man 
came  running  along  the  road,  in  the  very  path  lately  stained  with  the  blood 
of  the  wounded  man.  He  was  dressed  in  a  red  coat,  and  in  his  right  hand 
he  grasped  a  rnusquet,  with  a  bayonet  dripping  blood. 

"  I  killed  that  fellow,"  he  said  in  a  rude  tone,  "  and  what  have  you  got 
to  say  to  it  ?" 

"  Did  he  ever  harm  you  ?"  said  the  King. 

'.  j\0 — I  never  saw  him  before  this  hour  !" 

"  Then  why  did  you  kill  him  ?" 

"  I  killed  him  for  eight-pence,"  said  the  man,  with  a  brutal  sneer. 

The  good  King  raised  his  hands  in  horror,  and  called  on  his  God  to  pity 
the  wretch! 

"Killed  a  man  for  eight-pence  !  Ah,  you  wretch  !  Don't  you  hear  the 
groans  of  his  wife  ? — the  screams  of  his  children  ?" 

"Why,  that  hain't  nothin',"  said   the  man  in  the  red   coat.     "I've  Killeo 
8 


122  THE    WISSAHIKON. 

many  a  one  to-day,  beside  him.  I'm  quite  used  to  it,  though  burnui*  <?m 
alive  in  their  houses  is  much  better  fun." 

The  King  now  foamed  with  righteous  scorn. 

*  Wretch  !"  he  screamed,  "  where  is  your  master,  this  devil  in  human 
shape,  who  gives  you  eight-pence  for  killing  an  innocent  man  ?" 

"  Oh,  he's  a  good  ways  over  the  water,"  said  the  man.  *«  His  name  is 
GEORGE  THE  THIRD.  He's  my  King.  He " 

The  good  King  groaned. 

"  Why — why,"  said  he,  slowly,  "  I  must  be  in  America.  That  dying 
man  must  be  a — Rebel.  You  must  be  one  of  my  soldiers " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  man  in  the  red  coat,  with  a  brutal  grin ;  "  you  took  me 
out  o'  Newgate,  and  put  this  pretty  dress  on  my  back.  That  man  whom  I 
killed  was  a  farmer:  he  sometimes  killed  sheep  for  a  dollar  a  day.  I'm 
not  quite  so  well  off  as  him,  for  I  kill  men,  and  only  get  eight-pence  a  day. 
I  say,  old  gentleman,  couldn't  you  raise  my  wages  ?" 

But  the  King  did  not  behold  the  brute  any  longer.  He  only  saw  that 
the  young  woman  and  her  children,  kneeling  around  the  body  of  the  dead 
man. 

Suddenly  those  invisible  hands  again  grasped  his  Royal  person,  and  bore 
him  through  the  air. 

When  he  again  opened  his  eyes,  he  beheld  a  wide  lawn,  extending  in  the 
light  of  the  December  moon.  That  lawn  was  white  with  snow.  From  its 
centre  arose  an  old-time  mansion,  with  grotesque  ornaments  about  its  roof, 
a  hall  door  defended  by  pillars,  and  steps  of  stone,  surmounted  by  two  lions 
in  marble.  All  around  the  mansion,  like  sentinels  on  their  midnight  watch, 
stood  scattered  trees,  their  bare  limbs  rising  clearly  and  distinctly  into  the 
midnight  sky. 

While  the  King  was  wrapped  in  wonder  at  the  sight — behold  !  A  band 
of  women,  a  long  and  solemn  train,  came  walking  over  the  lawn,  their  long 
black  gowns  trailing  in  the  winter  snow. 

It  was  a  terrible  sight  to  see  those  wan  faces,  upturned  to  the  cold  moon, 
but  oh  !  the  chaunt  they  sung,  those  spectral  women,  as  they  slowly  wound 
around  the  lawn  :  it  chilled  the  King's  blood. 

For  that  chaunt  implored  Almighty  God  to  curse  King  George  of  Eng 
land  for  the  murder  of  their  husbands — fathers — brothers  ! 

Then  came  a  band  of  little  children,  walking  two  by  two,  and  raising 
their  tiny  hands  in  the  light  of  the  moon.  They  also  rent  the  air  with  a 
low,  deep  chaunt,  sung  in  their  infantile  tones. 

George,  the  King,  listened  to  that  chaunt  with  freezing  blood,  with  tremb 
ling  limbs.  He  knew  not  why,  but  he  joined  in  that  song  in  spite  of  him 
self,  he  sung  their  hymn  of  woe. 

*'  George  of  England,  we  curse  thee  in  the  sight  of  God,  for  toe  niurdei 
••four  fathers  !  We  curse  thee  with  the  orphan's  curse  !" 


KING   GEORGE    IN    WESTMINSTER   ABBE\  123 

This  was  their  chaunt.  No  other  words  they  sung.  But  this  simple 
hymn  they  sung  again  and  again,  raising  their  little  hands  to  God. 

"  Oh,  this  is  hard  !"  shrieked  King  George.  "  I  could  bear  the  curse  of 
warriors — nay,  even  the  curse  of  the  Priest  at  the  Altar  !  But  to  be  cursed 
by  widows — to  be  cursed  by  little  children — ah " 

The  good  King  fell  on  his  knees. 

"  Where  am  I !"  he  shrieked — **  and  who  are  these  ?" 

A  voice  from  the  still  winter  air  answered  — 

"  You  are  on  the  battle-field.  These  are  the  widows  and  orphans  of  the 
dead  of  Germantown." 

"  But  did  I  murder  their  fathers  ?    Their  husbands  ?" 

The  voice  replied — 

"  You  did  !  Too  cowardly  or  too  weak  to  kill  them  with  your  own  hand, 
you  hired  your  starving  peasants,  your  condemned  felons  to  do  it  for  you  !" 

The  King  grovelled  in  the  snow  and  beat  his  head  against  the  frozen 
ground.  He  felt  that  he  was  a  murderer :  he  could  feel  the  brand  of  Cain 
blistering  upon  his  brow. 

Again  he  was  taken  up — again  borne  through  the  air. 

Where  was  he  now  ?  He  looked  around,  and  by  the  light  of  that  Decem 
ber  moon,  struggling  among  thick  clouds,  he  beheld  a  scattered  village  of 
huts,  extending  along  wintry  hills.  The  cold  wind  cut  his  cheek  and  froze 
his  blood 

An  object  at  his  feet  arrested  his  eye.  He  stooped  down  :  examined  it 
with  a  shudder.  It  was  a  man's  footsteps,  printed  in  blood. 

The  King  was  chilled  to  the  heart  by  the  cold  ;  stupified  with  horror  at 
the  sight  of  this  strange  footstep.  He  said  to  himself,  I  will  hasten  to  yonder 
hut;  I  will  escape  from  the  wind  and  cold,  and  the  sight  of  that  horrid 
footstep. 

He  started  toward  the  village  of  huts,  but  all  around  him  those  bloody 
footsteps  in  the  snow  seemed  to  gather  and  increase  at  every  inch  of  his 
way. 

At  last  he  reached  the  first  hut,  a  rude  structure  of  logs  and  mud.  He 
looked  in  the  door,  and  beheld  a  naked  man,  worn  to  a  skeleton,  stretched 
prostrate  on  a  heap  ot  straw. 

"  Ho  !  my  friend,"  said  the  King,  as  though  a  voice  spoke  in  him,  with 
out  his  will,  "  why  do  you  lie  here,  freezing  to  death,  when  my  General, 
Sir  William  Howg,  at  Philadelphia  yonder,  will  give  you  such  fine  clothes 
and  rich  food  ?" 

The  freezing  man  looked  up,  and  muttered  a  few  brief  words,  and  then 
fell  back — dead  ! 

"  Washington  is  here  !"   was  all  he  said,  ere  he  died. 

In  another  hut,  in  search  of  shelter,  peeped  the  cold  and  hungry  King. 
i  rude  fellow  sate  warming  his  hands  by  a  miserable  fire,  over  which  an 


124  THE    WISLAHJKON. 

old  kettle  was  suspended.  His  face  was  lean  and  his  cheeks  hollow,  nay 
the  hands  which  he  held  out  towards  the  light,  looked  like  the  hands  of  a 
skeleton. 

"  Ho  !  my  friend — what  cheer  ?"  said  the  King.  "  I  am  hungry — hav« 
you  any  thing  to  eat  ?" 

"  Not  much  of  any  account,"  replied  the  rude  fellow ;  "  yesterday  I  eat 
the  last  of  my  dog,  and  to-day  I'm  goin'  to  dine  on  these  mocassins  :  don't 
you  hear  'em  bilin*  ?" 

««  But,"  said  the  King,  "  there's  fine  living  at  Philadelphia,  in  the  camp  of 
Sir  William.  Why  do  you  stay  here  to  starve  ?" 

"Was  you  ever  to  school  ?"  said  the  starved  Rebel.  "Do  you  know 
how  to  spell  L-I-B-E-R-T-Y  ?" 

The  good  King  passed  on.  In  the  next  hut  lay  a  poor  wretch  dying  of 
that  loathsome  plague — small-pox. 

"  Come,"  said  the  King,  or  rather  the  voice  in  him  spoke,  "  away  to 
Philadelphia  !" 

"  These  hills  are  free  !"  cried  the  poor  wretch,  lifting  his  loathsome  face 
into  light ;  then,  without  a  moan,  he  laid  down  to  his  fever  and  starvation 
again. 

At  last,  his  Royal  brain  confounded  by  the  words  of  these  strange  men 
the  King  entered  a  two-story  stone  house,  which  arose  in  the  glen,  between 
the  hills,  near  the  brink  of  a  dark  river.  Slowly  entered  the  King,  attracted 
by  the  sound  of  a  voice  at  prayer  along  a  dark  passage,  into  a  small  chamber, 
in  which  a  light  was  burning. 

A  man  of  noble  visage  was  on  his  knees,  praying  to  God  in  earnest 
tones — 

"  We  will  endure  disease,  starvation,  death,  but,  in  thy  name,  oh,  God ! 
wo  will  never  give  up  our  arms  !  The  tyrant,  with  murder  in  his  heart, 
may  darken  our  plains  with  his  hirelings,  possess  our  cities,  but  still  we 
thank  thee,  oh,  God  !  that  the  mountains  are  free,  that  where  the  panther 
howls,  we  may  yet  find  a  home  for  the  brave. 

"  Hold,  hold !"  shouted  the  voice  within  the  King,  as  the  terror-stricken 
Monarch  rushed  into  the  room.  "  Washington  do  not  pray  against  me  !  I 
can  bear  to  be  called  a  murderer — a  butcher  of  orphans,  but  that  you- — you, 
so  calm  amid  starvation,  nakedness,  disease — you  whom  I  thought  hunted 
long  ago,  like  a  wolf  before  the  hounds — that  you  should  call  God's  ven 
geance  on  my  head — that  I  cannot  bear !  Washington,  do  not  pray 
against  me  !" 

And  he  flung  himself  at  the  feet  of  the  Hunted  Rebel,  and  besought  his 
mercy  with  trembling  hands,  extended  in  a  gesture  of  supplication. 

'*  It  was  I  that  butchered  your  farmers  !  It  was  I  that  tore  the  husband 
from  the  wife,  the  father  from  his  child  !  It  was  I  that  drove  these  freemen 
10  the  huts  of  Valley  Forge,  where  they  endure  the  want  of  bread,  fire,  the 
freezing  cold,  the  loathsome  small-pox,  rather  than  take  my  gold — it  was  I ' 


KING    GEORGE    IN    WESTMINSTER    ABBEY.  1^5 

Rebel  I  am  at  your  feet!  Have  mercy  !  I,  George  by  the  Grace  of  God, 
Defender  of  the  Faith,  Head  of  the  Church,  fling  myself  at  your  feet,  and 
beg  your  pity  !  For  I  am  a  murderer — the  murderer  of  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands  !*' 

He  started  tremblingly  forward,  but  in  the  action,  that  room,  that  solemn 
face  and  warrior  form  of  the  Rebel,  passed  away. 

George  the  King  awoke  :  he  had  been  dreaming.  He  woke  with  the 
cold  sweat  on  his  brow  ;  a  tremor  like  the  ague  upon  his  limbs. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  his  red  light  streamed  in  one  gaudy  blaze 
through  yonder  stained  window'. — All  was  terribly  still  "in  Westminster 
Abbey. 

The  King  arose,  he  rushed  along  the  aisles,  seeking  with  starting  eyes 
for  the  form  of  the  poor  widow.  At  last  he  beheld  her,  shrouded  in  her 
faded  garments,  leaning  for  support  against  a  marble  figure  of  Mercy. 

The  King  rushed  to  her,  with  outspread  hands. 

"  Woman,  woman  !"  he  shrieked,  "  I  pardon  your  son  !" 

He  said  nothing  more,  he  did  not  even  wait  to  receive  her  blessings,  but 
rushing  with  trembling  steps  toward  the  door,  he  seized  the  withered  old 
Porter,  who  waited  there,  by  the  hand 

"Do  you  see  it  in  my  face?"  he  whispered — "don't  you  see  the  brand 
— MURDER — here  ?" 

He  sadly  laid  his  hand  against  his  forehead,  and  passed  through  the  door 
on  his  way. 

"  The  poor  King's  gone  mad  !"  said  the  old  Porter.  "  God  bless  his 
Majesty  !" 

In  front  of  that  dim  old  Abbey,  with  its  outlines  of  grandeur  ami  gloom, 
waited  the  Royal  carriage,  environed  by  guards.  Two  men  advanced  to 
meet  the  King — one  clad  in  the  attire  of  a  nobleman,  with  a  heavy  face  and 
dull  eye  ;  and  the  other  in  the  garb  of  a  Prelate,  with  mild  blue  eyes  and 
snow-white  hair. 

"  I  hope  your  Majesty's  prayers,  for  the  defeat  of  the  Rebels,  will  be 
smiled  upon  by  Heaven  !' 

Thus  with  a  smile  and  gently-waving  hand,  spoKe  my  Lord,  the  Arch 
bishop  of  Canterbury. 

"  O,  by  Christmas  next,  we'll  have  this  Washington  brought  home  in 
chains  !" 

Thus  with  a  gruff  chuckle  spoke  my  Lord  North,  Prime  Minister  of 
England. 

The  good  King  looked  at  them  both  with  a  silly  smile,  and  then  pressed 
his  ringer  against  his  forehead. 

"  What — what — what  ?  Do  you  see  it  here  ?  Do,  you  see  it  ?  It  burns  t 
Eh  ?  MURDERER  !" 

With  that  silly  smile  the  King  leaped  in  the  carriage.     Hurrah  !    How 


126  THE    WISSAHIKON. 

the  mob  shouted — how  the  swords  of  the  guards  gleamed  on  high — iioir 
gaily  the  chariot  wheels  dashed  along  the  streets — hurrah  ! 

Let  us  swell  the  shout,  but — 

That  night  a  rumor  crept  through  all  London,  that  KING  GEOROK  WAS 

MAD  AGAIN  ! 

VIII.— VALLEY  FORGE. 

HIDDEN  away  there  in  a  deep  glen,  not  many  miles  from  Valley  Forge,  a 
quaint  old  farm  house  rose  darkly  over  a  wide  waste  of  snow. 

It  was  a  cold  dark  winter  night,  and  the  snow  began  to  fall — when  from 
the  broad  fireplace  of  the  old  farm  house,  the  cheerful  blaze  of  massive  logs 
flashed  around  a  wide  and  spacious  room. 

Two  persons  sat  there  by  that  fire,  a  father  and  child.  The  father,  who 
sits  yonder,  with  a  soldier's  belt  thrown  over  his  farmer's  dress,  is  a  man 
of  some  fifty  years,  his  eyes  bloodshot,  his  hair  changed  to  an  untimely  grey, 
his  face  wrinkled  and  hallowed  by  care,  and  by  dissipation  more  than  care. 

And  the  daughter  who  sits  in  the  full  light  of  the  blaze  opposite  her  father 
— a  slenderly  formed  girl  of  some  seventeen  years,  clad  in  the  coarse  linsey 
skirt  and  kerchief,  which  made  up  the  costume  of  a  farmer's  daughter,  in 
the  days  of  the  Revolution. 

She  is  not  beautiful — ah,  no  ! 

Care — perhaps  that  disease,  consumption,  which  makes  the  heart  grow 
cold  to  name — has  been  busy  with  that  young  face,  sharpened  its  outlines, 
and  stamped  it  with  a  deathly  paleness. 

There  is  no  bloom  on  that  young  cheek.  The  brown  hair  is  laid  plainly 
aside  from  her  pale  brow.  Then  tell  me,  what  is  it  you  see,  when  you  gaze 
in  her  face  ? 

You  look  at  that  young  girl,  you  see  nothing  but  the  gleam  of  two  large 
dark  eyes,  that  burn  into  your  soul. 

Yes,  those  eyes  are  unnaturally  large  and  dark  and  bright — perhaps  con 
sumption  is  feeding  their  flame. 

And  now  as  the  father  sits  there,  so  moody  and  sullen,  as  the  daughter 
sits  yonder,  so  sad  and  silent  and  pale,  tell  me,  I  pray  you,  the  story  of 
their  lives. 

That  farmer,  Jacob  Manheim,  was  a  peaceful,  a  happy  man,  before  the 
Revolution.  Since  the  war,  he  has  become  drunken  and  idle — driven  his 
wife  broken-hearted  to  the  grave — and  worse  than  all,  joined  a  band  of  Tory 
refugees,  who  scour  the  land  as  dead  of  night,  burning  and  murdering  as 
they  go. 

To-night,  at  the  hour  of  two,  this  Tory  band  will  lie  in  wait,  in  a  neigh 
boring  pass,  to  attack  and  murder  the  •*  Rebel"  Washington,  whose  starving 
soldiers  are  yonder  in  the  huts  of  Valley  Forge. 

Washington  or  his  lonely  journeys  is  wont  to  pass  this  farm  houao ;— 


VALLEY    FORGE.  127 

the  cut-throats  are  there  in  the  next  chamber,  drinking  and  feasting,  as  they 
wait  for  two  o  clock  at  night. 

And  the  daughter,  Mary — for  her  name  was  Mary  ;  they  loved  tl  at  name 
in  the  good  old  times — what  is  the  story  of  her  brief  young  life  ? 

She  had  been  reared  by  her  mother,  now  dead  and  gone  home,  to  revere 
this  man  Washington,  who  to-night  will  be  attacked  and  murdered — to  revere 
him  next  to  God.  Nay,  more:  that  mother  on  her  death-bed  joined  the 
hands  of  this  daughter,  in  solemn  betrothal  with  the  hands  of  a  young  parti 
san  leader,  Harry  Williams,  who  now  shares  the  crust  and  the  cold  of 
Valley  Forge. 

Well  may  that  maiden's  eye  flash  with  unnatural  brightness,  well  may 
her  pale  face  gather  a  single  burning  flush,  in  the  centre  of  each  cheek  ! 

For  yesterday  afternoon,  she  went  four  miles,  over  roads  of  ice  and  snow, 
to  tell  Captain  Williams  the  plot  of  the  refugees.  She  did  not  reach  Valley 
Forge  until  Washington  had  left  on  one  of  his  lonely  journeys  ;  so  this  night, 
at  twelve,  the  partizan  captain  will  occupy  the  rocks  above  the  neighboring 
pass,  to  "trap  the  trappers"  of  George  Washington. 

Yes,  that  pale  slender  girl,  remembering  the  words  of  her  dying  mother, 
had  broken  through  her  obedience  to  her  father,  after  a  long  and  bitter  strug 
gle.  How  dark  that  struggle  in  a  faithful  daughter's  heart !  She  had 
betrayed  his  plots  to  his  enemies — stipulating  first  for  the  life,  the  safety  of 
her  traitor-father. 

And  now  as  father  and  child  are  sitting  there,  as  the  shouts  of  the  Tory 
refugees  echo  from  the  next  chamber — as  the  hand  of  the  old  clock  is  on  the 
hour  of  eleven — hark  !  There  is  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  witiiout  the 
farm  house — there  is  a  pause — the  door  opens — a  tall  stranger,  wrapped  in 
a  thick  cloak,  white  with  snow,  enters,  advances  to  the  fire,  and  in  brief 
words  solicits  some  refreshment  and  an  hour's  repose. 

Why  does  the  Tory  Manheim  start  aghast  at  the  sight  of  that  stranger's 
blue  and  gold  uniform — then  mumbling  something  to  his  daughter  about 
ik  getting  food  for  the  traveller,"  rush  wildly  into  the  next  room,  where  his 
brother  Tories  are  feasting  ? 

Tell  me,  why  does  that  young  girl  stand  trembling  before  the  tall  stranger, 
veiling  her  eyes  from  that  calm  face,  with  its  blue  eye  and  kindly  smile  ? 

Ah — if  we  may  believe  the  legends  of  that  time,  few  men,  few  warriors, 
who  dared  the  terror  of  battle  with  a  smile,  could  stand  unabashed  before 
the  solemn  presence  of  Washington. 

For  it  was  Washington,  exhausted,  with  a  long  journey — his  limbs  stif 
fened  and  his  face  numbed  with  cold — it  was  the  great  "  Rebel"  of  Valley 
Forge,  who  returning  to  camp  sooner  than  his  usual  hour,  was  forced  by 
the  storm  to  take  refuge  in  the  farmer's  house,  and  claim  a  little  food  und 
an  hour's  repose  at  his  hands. 

In  a  few  moments,  behold  the  Soldier,  with  his  cloak  thrown  ofl,  sitting 


128  THE    WISSAHIKON. 

at  that  oaken  table,  partaking  of  the  food,  spread  out  there  by  the  hands  of 
the  gill,  who  now  stands  trembling  at  his  shoulder. 

And  look!  Her  hand  is  extended  as  if  to  grasp  him  by  the  arm — her  lips 
move  as  if  to  warn  him  of  his  danger,  but  make  no  sound.  Why  all  this 
silent  agony  for  the  man  who  sits  so  calmly  there  ? 

One  moment  ago,  as  the  girl,  in  preparing  the  hasty  supper,  opened 
yonder  closet  door,  adjoining  the  next  room,  she  heard  the  low  whispers  of 
her  father  and  the  Tories  ;  she  heard  tlie  dice  box  rattle,  as  they  were  cast 
ing  lots,  who  should  stab  George.  Washington  in  his  sleep  ! 

And  now,  the  words  :  "  Jleware,  or  this  night  you  die!"  trembles  half- 
formed  upon  her  lips,  when  the  father  comes  hastily  from  that  room  and 
hushes  her  with  a  look. 

r  "  Show  the  gentleman  to  his  chamber,  Mary  !" — (how  calmly  polite  a 
murderer  can  be  !) — "  that  chamber  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  on  the  left.  On 
the  left,  you  mind  !" 

Mary  takes  the  light,  trembling  and  pale.  She  leads  the  soldier  up  the 
oaken  stairs.  They  stand  on  the  landing,  in  this  wing  of  the  farm-house, 
composed  of  two  rooms,  divided  by  thick  walls  from  the  main  body  of  the 
mansion.  On  one  side,  the  right,  is  the  door  of  Mary's  chamber ;  on  the 
other,  the  left,  the  chamber  of  the  soldier — to  him  a  chamber  of  death. 

For  a  moment,  Mary  stands  there  trembling  and  confused.  Washington 
gazes  upon  that  pale  girl  with  a  look  of  surprise.  Look  !  She  is  about  to 
warn  him  of  his  danger,  when,  see  there! — her  father's  rough  face  appears 
above  the  head  of  the  stairs. 

44  Mary,  show  the  gentleman  into  the  chamber  on  the  left.  And  look  ye, 
girl — it's  late — you'd  better  go  into  your  own  room  and  go  to  sleep." 

While  the  Tory  watches  them  from  the  head  of  the  stairs,  Washington 
enters  the  chamber  on  the  left,  Mary  the  chamber  on  the  right. 

An  hour  passes.  Still  the  storm  beats  on  the  roof — still  the  snow  drifts 
on  the  hills.  Before  the  fire,  in  the  dim  old  hall  of  that  farm-house,  are 
seven  half-drunken  men,  with  that  tall  Tory,  Jacob  Manheim,  sitting  in  their 
midst ;  the  murderer's  knife  in  his  hand.  For  the  lot  had  fallen  upon  him 
He  is  to  go  up  stairs  and  stab  the  sleeping  man. 

Even  this  half-drunken  murderer  is  pale  at  the  thought — how  the  knife 
trembles  in  his  hand — trembles  against  the  pistol  barrel.  The  jeers  of  his 
comrades  rouse  him  to  the  work, — the  light  in  one  hand,  the  knife  in  the 
other,  he  goes  up  the  stairs — he  listens  ! — first  at  the  door  of  his  daughter's 
chamber  on  the  right,  then  at  the  door  of  the  soldier's  chamber  on  the  left. 
All  is  still.  Then  he  places  the  light  on  the  floor — he  enters  the  chamber 
on  the  left — he  is  gone  a  moment — silence  ! — there  is  a  faint  groan  !  He 
comes  forth  again,  rushes  down  the  stairs,  and  stands  there  before  the  fire, 
with  the  bloody  knife  in  his  hand. 

"Look!"  he   shrieks,  as  he  scatters   the  red  drops  over  his  comrades' 


VALLEY    FORGE. 


I'Kt 


faces,  over  the   hearth,  into   the   fire — "  Look  !  it  is   his  blood — the  traitot 
Washington  !" 

His  comrades  gather  round  him  with  yells  of  joy  :  already,  in  fancy,  they 
count  the  gold  which  will  be  paid  for  this  deed,  when  lo  !  that  stair  door 
opens,  and  there,  without  a«  wound,  without  even  the  stain  of  a  drop  of  blood, 
jstands  George  Washington,  asking  calmly  for  his  horse. 

"What!"  shrieked  the  Tory  Manheim,  "  can  neither  steel  nor  bullet 
harm  you  ?  Are  you  a  living  man  ?  Is  there  no  wound  about  your  heart  ? 
no  blood  upon  your  uniform  ?" 

That  apparition  drives  him  mad.  He  starts  forward — he  places  his  hands 
tremblingly  upon  the  arms,  upon  the  breast  of  Washington  !  Still  no  wound. 
Then  he  looks  at  the  bloody  knife,  still  clutched  in  his  right  hand,  and  stands 
there  quivering  as  with  a  death  spasm. 

While  Washington  looks  on  in  silent  wonder,  the  door  is  flung  open,  the 
bold  troopers  from  Valley  Forge  throng  the  room,  with  the  gallant  form  and 
bronzed  visage  of  Captain  Williams  in  their  midst.  At  this  moment  the 
clock  struck  twelve.  Then  a  horrid  thought  crashes  like  a  thunderbolt  upon 
the  brain  of  the  Tory  Manheim.  He  seizes  the  light — rushes  up  stairs  — 
rushes  into  the  room  of  his  daughter  on  the  right.  Some  one  had  just  risen 
from  the  bed,  but  the  chamber  was  vacant.  Then  towards  that  room  on 
the  left,  with  steps  of  leaden  heaviness. — Look  !  how  the  light  quivers  in 
his  hand  !  He  pauses  at  the  door ;  he  listens  !  Not  a  sound — a  stillness 
like  the  grave.  His  blood  curdles  in  his  veins  !  Gathering  courage,  he 
pushes  open  the  door.  He  enters.  Towards  that  bed  through  whose  cur 
tains  he  struck  so  blindly  a  moment  ago  !  Again  he  pauses — not  a  sound 
— a  silliness  more  terrible  than  the  grave.  He  flings  aside  the  curtains — 

There,  in  the  full  light  of  the  lamp,  her  young  form  but  half  covered, 
bathed  in  her  own  blood — there  lay  his  daughter,  Mary  ! 

Ah,  do  not  look  upon  the  face  of  the  father,  as  he  starts  silently  back, 
frozen  to  stone  ;  but  in  this  pause  of  horror  listen  to  the  mystery  of  this 
deed  ! 

After  her  father  had  gone  down  stairs,  an  hour  ago,  Mary  silently  stole 
from  the  chamber  on  the  right.  Her  soul  shaken  by  a  thousand  fears,  she 
opened  the  door  on  the  left,  and  beheld  Washington  sitting  by  a  table  on 
which  were  spread  a  chart  and  a  Bible.  Then,  though  her  existence  was 
wound  up  in  the  act,  she  asked  him,  in  a  tone  of  calm  politeness  to  take  the 
chamber  on  the  opposite  side.  Mary  entered  the  chamber  which  he  left. 

Can  you  imagine  the  agony  of  that  girl's  soul,  as  lying  on  the  bed  in 
tended  for  the  death-couch  of  Washington,  she  silently  awnited  the  knifof 
although  that  knife  might  be  clenched  in  a  father's  hand. 

And  now  that  father,  frozen  to  stone,  stood  there,  holding  the  light  in  one 
hand,  the  other  still  clutching  the  red  knife. 

There  lay  his  child,  the  blood  streaming  from  that  wound  in  her  arm — 
luir  eyes  covered  with  a  glassy  film. 


)30  THE   WISSAHIKON. 

"  Mary  !"  shrieked  the  guilty  father — for  robber  and  Tory  as  he  was,  he 
**as  still  a  father.  "  Mary  !"  he  called  to  her,  but  that  word  was  all  he 
could  say. 

Suddenly,  she  seemed  to  wake  from  that  stupor.  She  sat  up  in  the  bed 
with  her  glassy  eyes.  The  strong  hand  of  death  was  upon  her.  As  she 
sat  there,  erect  and  ghastly,  the  room  was  thronged  with  soldiers.  Her 
lover  rushed  forward,  and  called  her  by  name.  No  answer.  Called  again 
— spoke  to  her  in  the  familiar  tones  of  olden  time — still  no  answer.  She 
knew  him  not. 

Yes,  it  was  true — the  strong  hand  of  death  was  upon  her. 

"  Has  he  escaped  ?"  she  said,  in  that  husky  voice. 

"  Yes  !"  shrieked  the  father.  "  Live,  Mary,  only  live,  and  to-morrow  I 
will  join  the  camp  at  Valley  Forge." 

Then  that  girl — that  Hero-Woman — dying  as  she  was,  not  so  much  from 
the  wound  in  her  arm,  as  from  the  deep  agony  which  had  broken  the  last 
chord  of  life,  spread  forth  her  arms,  as  though  she  beheld  a  form  floating 
there  above  her  bed,  beckoning  her  away.  She  spread  forth  her  arms  as 
if  to  enclose  that  Angel  form. 

"  Mother !"  she  whispered — while  there  grouped  the  soldiers — there, 
with  a  speechless  agony  on  his  brow  stood  the  lover — there,  hiding  his  face 
with  one  hand,  while  the  other  grasped  the  light  crouched  the  father — that 
light  flashing  over  the  dark  bed,  with  the  white  form  in  its  centre — 
"  Mother,  thank  God  !  For  with  my  life  I  have  saved  him " 

Look,  even  as  starting  up  on  that  bloody  couch,  she  speaks  the  half- 
formed  word,  her  arms  stiffen,  her  eyes  wide  open,  set  in  death,glare  in  her 
father's  face  ! 

She  is  dead  !     From  that  dark  room  her  spirit  has  gone  home  ! 

That  half-formed  word,  still  quivering  on  the  white  lips  of  the  Hero- Wo 
man — that  word  uttered  in  a  husky  whisper,  choked  by  the  death-rattle— 
that  word  was — «*  WASHINGTON  !"* 


*  Will  you  pardon  me,  reader,  that  I  have  made  the  Prophetess  of  Wissahikon, 
relate  various  Legends,  which  do  not  directly  spring  from  her  own  soil  ?  The  le 
gends  of  Valley  Forge,  King  George,  the  Mansion  on  the  Schuylkill,  with  others 
included  under  the  general  head  of  "  Wissahikon,"  do  not,  it  is  true,  relate  especially 
to  the  soil  of  this  romantic  dell,  but  they  are  impregnated  with  the  same  spirit,  which 
distinguishes  her  traditions,  and  illustrate  and  develope  the  idea  of  the  previous 
sketches.  I  have  taken  Wissahikon,  as  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  old-time  Romance, 
whose  circumference  is  described  by  the  storied  ground  of  Paoli,  the  hills  of  Valley 
Forge,  the  fields  of  Germantown. — They  were  written  on  the  banks  of  the  Wissahi 
kon,  with  her  wild  scenery  before  the  author's  eye,  the  music  of  her  stream  in  his 
ears.  It  has  been  his  object,  to  embody  in  every  line,  that  spirit  of  mingled  light  and 
shade,  which  is  stamped  on  every  rock  and  tree  of  the  Wissahikrn. 


THE    MANSION    ON    THE    SCHUYLK1LL.  131 


IX.— THE    MANSION    ON   THE    SCHUYLKILL. 

GLIDING  one  summer  day  over  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  Schuylkill,  with 
the  white  sail  of  my  boat,  swelling  with  the  same  breeze  that  ruffled  the 
pines  of  Laurel  Hill,  I  slowly  emerged  from  the  shadow  of  an  old  bridge, 
and  all  at  once,  a  prospect  of  singular  beauty  lay  before  me,  in  the  beams 
of  the  setting  sun. 

A  fine  old  mansion  crowned  the  summit  of  a  green  hill,  which  arose  on 
the  eastern  shore,  its  grassy  breast  bared  to  the  sunset  glow.  A  fine  old 
mansion  of  dark  grey  stone,  with  its  white  pillars  looking  out  from  among 
green  trees.  From  the  grassy  bosom  of  the  hill,  many  a  white  statue  arose, 
many  a  fountain  dashed  its  glittering  drops  into  light.  There  was  an  air 
of  old-time  elegance  and  ease  about  that  mansion,  with  its  green  lawn  sloping 
gently  down — almost  to  the  river's  brink,  its  encircling  grove  of  magnificent 
trees,  its  statues  ami  fountains.  It  broke  on  your  eye,  as  you  emerged  from 
the  arches  of  the  old  bridge,  like  a  picture  from  Italy. 

Yet  from  the  porch  of  that  old-time  mansion,  a  fairer  view  bursts  upon 
your  eye.  The  arches  of  the  bridges — one  spanning  the  river  in  all  the 
paint  and  show  of  modern  fancy,  the  other  gloomy  as  night  and  the  grave — 
the  sombre  shades  of  Laurel  Hill,  hallowed  by  the  white  tombs  of  the  dead, 
with  the  Gothic  Chapel  rising  among  dark  green  trees — the  Schuylkill,  ex 
tending  far  beyond  bridge  and  Cemetry,  its  broad  bosom  enclosed  on  every 
side  by  hills  and  trees,  resting  like  some  mountain  lake  in  the  last  glow  of 
the  setting  sun — a  fairer  view  does  not  bless  the  traveller's  eye  from  the 
Aroostook  to  -the  Rio  Grande. 

There  is  a  freshness  in  the  verdure — a  beauty  in  that  still  sheet  of  water, 
a  grandeur  in  yonder  sombre  pines,  waving  above  the  rocks  of  Laurel  Hill 
— a  rural  magnificence  in  the  opposite  shore  of  the  river,  rising  in  one  mas 
sive  hill,  green  with  woods  and  gay  with  cottage  and  mansion, — a  beauty,  a 
grandeur,  a  magnificence  that  at  once  marks  the  Falls  of  Schuylkill  with  an 
ever-renewing  novelty,  an  unfading  charm. 

The  view  is  beautiful  in  the  morning,  when  the  pillars  of  the  bridge,  fling 
their  heavy  shadows  over  the  water;  when  the  tree  tops  of  Laurel  Hill,  un 
dulate  to  the  breeze  in  masses  of  green  and  gold,  while  the  Schuylkill  rests 
in  the  shade. 

Beautiful  at  noon,  when  from  the  thick  foliage  on  the  opposite  shore, 
half-way  up  the  massive  hill,  arises  the  blue  smoke  of  the  hidden  "  God  of 
Steam,"  winding  slowly  upward  to  the  cloudless  sky. 

Beautiful  at  twilight,  when  flashes  of  purple  and  gold  change  the  view 
every  moment,  and  impart  a  gorgeous  beauty,  which  does  not  cease  when 
the  spires  of  Laurel  Hill  glow  in  the  first  beam  of  the  uprising  rnoon. 

Ah,  night,  deep  and  solemn — the  great  vault  above — below   and  around 


I'M  THE    WISSAHIKON. 

the  river  glistening  in  the  moonbeam,  the  bridges  one  mingled  mass  of  light 
and  darkness — Laurel  Hill  a  home  for  the  dead  in  truth,  with  its  white  mon 
uments  glaring  fitfully  into  light,  between  the  branches  of  the  trees.  There 
is  a  sad  and  solemn  beauty,  resting  on  this  scene  at  night. 

It  was  at  night,  that  a  Legend  of  this  old-tirne  mansion,  rushed  upon  my 
soul. 

T  stood  on  the  porch;  and  the  bridge,  the  Cemetry  melted  all  at  once 
away.  T  was  with  the  past — back  sixty  years  and  more,  into  the  dim 
arcades  of  time.  Nor  bridge,  nor  cemetry  were  there,  but  in  place  of  the 
cemetry,  one  sombre  mass  of  wild  wood  ;  where  the  bridge  now  spans  the 
river,  a  water-fall  dashed  and  howled  among  rugged  rocks.  No  bine  smoke 
of  steam  engine,  then  wound  up  from  the  green  trees.  A  man  who  would 
have  dreamed  of  such  a  thing,  would  have  been  imprisoned  as  a  mad 
man. 

Yet  a  strange  wild  beauty,  rested  upon  this  mansion,  this  river,  these 
hills  in  the  days  of  the  Revolution.  A  beauty  that  was  born  of  luxuriant 
forests,  a  river  dashing  tumultuously  over  its  bed  of  rocks,  hills  lifting  their 
colossal  forms  into  the  sky.  A  beauty  whose  fields  and  flowers  were  not 
crushed  by  the  Juggernaut,  "Improvement;"  whose  river  all  untramelled, 
went  singing  on  its  way  until  it  kissed  the  Delaware. 

Tt  was  a  night  in  the  olden-time,  when  Washington  held  the  huts  and  hills 
of  Valley  Forge,  while  Sir  William  Howe  enjoyed  the  balls  and  banquets 
of  Philadelphia. 

A  solitary  light  burned  in  the  mansion — a  tall,  formal  wax  candle — cast 
ing  its  rays  around  a  quaint  old  fashioned  room.  A  quaint,  old  fashioned 
room,  not  so  much  remarkable  for  its  dimensions,  as  for  the  air  of  honest 
comfort,  which  hung  about  the  high-backed  mahogany  chairs,  the  oaken 
wainscot,  the  antique  desk,  standing  in  one  corner  ;  a  look  of  honest  comfort 
which  glowed  brightly  from  the  spacious  fire-place,  where  portly  logs  of 
hickory  sent  up  their  mingled  smoke  and  flame. 

In  front  of  that  fire  were  three  persons,  whose  attitude  and  gestures  pre 
sented  a  strange,  an  effective  picture.  On  the  right,  in  a  spacious  arm 
chair,  lined  with  cushions,  sat  a  man  of  some  seventy  years,  his  spare  foim 
wrapped  in  a  silk  dressing  gown,  his  grey  hair  waving  over  his  prominent 
brow  to  his  shoulders,  while  his  blue  eyes,  far  sunken  in  their  sockets, 
lighted  up  a  wan  and  withered  face. 

At  his  feet,  knelt  a  beautiful  woman,  whose  form  swelling  with  the  full 
outlines  of  mature  womanhood,  was  enveloped  in  a  flowing  habit  of  easy 
folds  and  snow-white  hue.  Around  that  face,  glowing  with  red  on  th? 
cheek  and  lip,  and  marble-white  on  the  brow,  locks  of  golden  hair  fell 
in  soft  undulations,  until  they  floated  around  the  neck  and  bosom.  Her 
blue  eyes — beaming  with  all  a  woman's  love  for  a  trembling  old  man,  that 
man  her  father — were  fixed  upon  his  face  with  a  silent  anxiety  and 
tenderness. 


THE   MANSION    ON    THE    SCHUYLKILL.  133 

The  old  man's  gaze  was  rivetted  to  the  countenance  of  the  th;rd  figure  in 
this  scene,  who  sat  opposite,  on  the  left  side  of  the  fire. 

A  man  of  some  fifty  years,  with  strongly  marked  features,  thick  grey  eye 
brows,  hooked  nose  like  an  eagle's  beak,  thin  lips  and  prominent  chin. 
His  head  was  closely  enveloped  in  a  black  silk  cap,  which  concealing  his 
hair,  threw  his  wrinkled  forehead  boldly  into  the  light.  A  gown  or  tunic 
of  faded  dark  velvet,  fell  from  his  shoulders  to  his  knees.  His  head  was 
bent  down,  while  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  uncouth  print  of  an  old  volume, 
which  lay  open  across  his  knees. 

That  volume  was  intituled — "  Ye  LASTE  SECRET  OF  CORNELIUS  AGRIPPA, 
now  fir  fit  frans/afed  into  English.  Jlnno.  Dom.  1516. 

The  man  who  perused  its  pages,  was  none  other  than  the  "  ASTROLOGER" 
or  "  CONJURER"  who  at  this  time  of  witchcraft  and  superstition,  held  a 
wonderful  influence  over  the  minds  of  the  people,  in  all  the  country,  about 
Philadelphia. 

He  had  been  summoned  hither  to  decide  a  strange  question.  Many 
years  ago,  while  dwelling  in  the  backwoods  of  Pennsylvania,  with  his 
young  wife,  Gerald  Morton — so  the  old  man  of  seventy  was  named — had 
been  deprived  of  his  only  son,  a  boy  of  four  years,  by  some  unaccountable 
accident.  The  child  had  suddenly  disappeared.  Years  passed — a  daughter 
was  born — the  wife  died,  but  no  tidings  reached  the  father's  ears  of  his 
lost  son. 

To  night  a  strange  infatuation  had  taken  possession  of  his  brain. 

His  son  was  living !  He  was  assured  of  this,  by  a  voice  that  whispered 
to  his  soul. 

He  was  doomed  to  die,  ere  morning  dawned.  Ere  he  gave  up  the 
Ghost,  he  wished  to  le?rn  something  of  his  child,  and  so — with  a  supersti 
tion  shared  by  the  intelligent  as  well  as  the  illiterate  of  that  time — he  had 
summoned  the  Astrologer. 

"The  child  was  horn  before  midnight  January  12,  1740?"  said  the 
Astrologer.  *'  Four  years  from  the  night  of  his  birth,  he  disappeared  ?" 

The  old  man  bowed  his  head  in  assent. 

"  1  have  cast  his  Horoscope,"  said  the  Astrologer.  "  By  this  paper,  1 
know  that  your  son  lives,  for  it  threatens  his  life,  with  three  eras  of  dan 
ger.  The  first,  Jan.  12,  1744.  The  second,  Jan.  12,  1778.  The  third— 
a  dffff  unknown — " 

"  He  is  in  danger,  then  to  night,"  said  Mr.  Morton  ;  "  For  to  night  is  the 
Twelfth  of  January,  1778?" 

The  Astrologer  rose  and  placed  a  chafing  dish  on  the  carpet,  near  the 
antique  desk,  which  was  surmounted  by  an  oval  mirror.  Scattering  spices 
*nd  various  unknown  compounds  upon  the  dish,  the  Astrologer  applied  a 
light,  and  in  a  moment,  one  portion  of  the  room,  was  enveloped  in  rolling 
Clouds  of  fragrant  smoke. 

"  Now  Amable,"  said  he,  in  a  meaning  tone,  "  This   charm  can  be  tried 


J34  THE   WISSAHIKON. 

by  a  pure  virgin  and  by  her  alone.  Would'st  thou  see  thy  brother,  at  this 
moment  ?  Enter  this  smoke  and  look  within  the  mirror :  thou  shalt  behold 
him  !" 

A  deep  silence  prevailed.  Gerald  Morton  leaned  forward  with  parted 
lips.  Amable  arose ;  clasping  her  hands  across  her  bosom,  she  passed  to 
ward  the  mirror,  and  her  form  was  lost  in  the  fragrant  smoke. 

A  strange  smile  passed  over  the  Astrologer's  face.  Was  it  of  scorn  01 
malice,  or  merely  an  expression  of  no  meaning  ? 

"  What  dost  thou  see  ?" 

A  tremulous  voice,  from  the  bosom  of  the  smoke-cloud,  gave  answer. 

•*  A  river  !  A  rock  !  A  mansion  !" 

*'  Look  again— what  seest  thou  now  ?" 

The  old  man  half-rose  from  his  arm-chair.  That  strange  smile  deepened 
over  the  Astrologer's  face. 

A  moment  passed — no  answer  ! 

All  was  still  as  the  grave. 

Amable  did  not  answer,  for  the  sight  which  she  beheld,  took  from  her, 
for  a  moment,  the  power  of  utterance.  She  beheld  her  father's  mansion, 
rising  above  the  Schuylkill,  the  river  and  the  rocks  of  Laurel  Hill  white 
with  snow.  The  silver  moon  from  a  clear  cold  sky  shone  over  all.  Along 
the  ascent  to  the  mansion,  came  a  man  of  strange  costume,  with  a  dark  eye 
and  bold  countenance.  A  voice  whispered — this  is  your  brother,  maiden. 

This  vision,  spreading  before,  in  the  smoke-darkened  glass,  filled  the 
maiden  with  wonder  with  awe. 

Was  it  a  trick  of  the  Conjurer's  art  ?  Or  did  some  Angel  of  God,  lift 
the  veil  of  flesh,  from  that  pure  woman's  eyes,  enabling  her  to  beheld  a 
sight  denied  to  mortal  vision  ?  Did  some  strange  impulse  of  that  angel- 
like  instinct,  which  in  woman,  supplies  the  place  of  man's  boasted,  reason, 
warn  Amable  of  approaching  danger  ? 

The  sequel  of  the  legend  will  tell  us. 

Still  the  old  man,  starting  from  his  seat,  awaited  an  answer. 

At  last  the  maiden's  voice  was  heard — 

"  I  behold "  she  began,  but  her  voice  was  broken  by  a  shriek. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  hurried  struggle,  a  shriek,  a  confused  tread.  In 
a  moment  from  the  clouds  of  smoke,  appeared  a  man  of  some  thirty  years, 
whose  muscular  form  was  clad  in  the  scarlet  uniform  of  a  British  officer. 
One  arm  held  Amable  by  the  waist,  while  the  other  wound  around  her  neck. 

The  old  man  started  aghast  from  his  seat.  That  face,  swollen  with  de 
bauchery,  those  disclosed  eyeballs  starting  from  the  purple  lids,  those  lips, 
stamped  with  a  brutal  smile — he  knew  it  well,  and  knew  that  it  was  not  the 
face  of  his  son. 

He  oeheld  him,  Captain  Marcham,  a  bravo  Vho  had  persecuted  Amable 
with  his  addresses  and  been  repulsed  with  scorn. 

He  stood  there,  his  laugh  of  derision,  ringing  through  the  chamber,  while 


^HE    MANSION    ON   THE    SCHUYLKILL.  135 

Amable  looxe^  up  in  his  brutal  face,  with  a  terror  that  hushed  her 
breath. 

The  Ast^ogcr  stood  near  the  hearth,  the  strange  smile  which  had  crossed 
his  face,  once  or  twice  before,  now  deepening  into  a  sneering  laugh.  One 
hand,  placed  within  his  breast,  fondled  the  heavy  purse  which  he  had  re 
ceived  for  his  treachery  from  the  British  Captain.  He  had  despatched  his 
servants  from  the  mansion  on  various  errands,  left  the  hall-door  unclosed  so 
as  to  afford  secure  entrance  to  the  Captain  and  his  bravoes.  Amable 
was  lost. 

In  a  moment  Gerald  Morton,  instinctively  became  aware  that  his  child 
was  in  the  bravo's  power. 

"  Spare  my  girl/'  he  said,  in  a  quivering  voice.  "  She  never  harmed 
you  !" 

"  O,  I  will  spare  the  lovely  lass,"  sneered  Marcham,  "  Trust  me  for  that ! 
Old  man  you  need  not  fear  !  You  old  rebels  with  pretty  daughters,  should 
not  make  your  country  mansions  places  of  rendezvous  for  rebels  and  traitors. 
Indeed  you  should'nt.  That  is,  if  you  wish  to  keep  your  pretty  girls  safe." 

"  When  was  my  house  a  rendezvous  for  a  rebel  or  a  traitor  ?"  said  the 
old  man,  rising  with  a  trembling  dignity. 

"  Have  you  not  given  aid,  succor,  money,  provisions,  to  those  rebels  who 
now  skulk  somewhere  about  in  the  fields  of  White  Marsh  ?  Did  not  the 
rebel  officers  meet  here  for  council,  not  more  than  a  month  ago  ?  Has  not 
Mister  Washington  himself  rested  here,  and  received  information  at  your 
hands  ?  Old  man — to  be  plain  with  you — Sir  William  thinks  the  air  of 
Walnut  Street  gaol  would  benefit  your  health.  I  am  commanded  to  arrest 
you  as  a — SPY  !" 

The  old  man  buried  his  face  in  his  white  hands. 

"  There  is  a  way,  however,"  said  the  Captain,  leering  at  Amable,  ««  Let 
me  marry  this  pretty  girl,  and — presto  vesto  I  The  order  for  your  arrest 
will  disappear  !" 

With  a  sudden  bound  Amable  sprang  from  his  arms,  and  sank  crouching 
near  the  hearth,  her  blue  eyes  fixed  on  her  father,  with  a  look  of  speechless 
agony. 

The  danger,  in  all  its  terrible  details  stared  her  in  the  face.  On  one  side, 
dishonor  or  the  pollution  of  that  coward's  embrace — on  the  other,  death  to 
her  father  by  the  fever  and  confinement  of  Walnut  Street  gaol. 

It  is  very  pretty  now-a-days  for  certain  perfumed  writers  and  orators,  to 
prate  about  the  magnanimity  of  Britain,  but  could  the  victims  who  were 
murdered  within  the  walls  of  the  old  Gaol  by  British  power,  rise  some  fine 
moonlight  night,  they  would  form  a  ghastly  band  of  witnesses,  extending 
Tom  the  prison  gate  to  the  doors  of  Independence  Hall. 

The  old  man,  Amable,  the  bravo  and  Astrologer,  all  felt  the  importance 
of  this  truth  :  BRITISH  POWER,  means  cruelty  to  the  fallen,  murder  to  the 
unarmed  brave.  They  all  remembered,  that  Paoli  was  yet  red  with  the 


136  THE    VVISSAHIKON. 

blood  of  massacre,  while  Walnut  Street  goal,  every  morning  sent  its  dis 
figured  dead  to  Potter's  field. 

Therefore  the  old  man  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  therefore  Amable 
terrified  to  the  heart,  sank  crouching  by  the  fireplace,  while  the  bravo  looked 
with  his  brutal  sneer,  upon  both  father  and  child. 

"  Come  girl — no  trifling,"  exclaimed  Marcham,  as  he  approached  the 
crouching  maiden.  "  You  must  go  with  me,  or  your  good  father  rests  in  gaol 
before  daybreak.  Take  your  choice  my  pretty  lass  ?" 

The  father  raised  his  face  from  his  hands.  He  was  lividly  pale,  yet  his 
blue  eyes  shone  with  unusual  light.  His  lip  quivered,  while  his  teeth, 
closely  clenched,  gave  a  wild  and  unearthly  aspect  to  his  countenance. 

All  hope  was  over ! 

The  intellect  of  the  old  man  was,  for  a  moment,  threatened  with  ruin, 
utter  and  withering,  as  the  dark  consciousness  of  his  helplessness  pressed 
like  lead  upon  his  brain. 

At  this  moment  a  footstep  was  heard,  and  lo  !  A  man  of  singular  cos 
tume  came  through  the  feathery  clouds  of  smoke,  and  stood  between  the 
bravo  and  the  father. 

A  man  of  almost  giant  height,  with  a  war-blanket  folded  over  his  breast, 
a  wampum  belt  about  hrs  waist,  glittering  with  tomahawk  and  knife,  while 
his  folded  arms  enclosed  a  rifle. 

The  aquiline  nose,  the  bold  brow,  the  head  destitute  of  hair,  with  a  single 
plume  rising  from  the  crown,  the  eagle-nose  and  clear  full  eye — there  was 
quiet  majesty  in  the  stranger's  look.  He  was  an  Indian,  yet  his  skin  was 
bronzed,  not  copper-colored ;  his  eye  was  sharp  and  piercing,  yet  blue  as  a 
summer  sky. 

For  a  moment  he  surveyed  the  scene.  The  Captain  shrank  back  from 
his  gaze.  The  old  man  felt  a  sudden  hope  dawning  over  his  soul.  The 
young  woman  looked  up,  and  gazed  upon  the  Indian's  stern  visage  without 
a  fear. 

There  was  a  pause  like  the  silence  of  the  grave. 

At  last  advancing  a  step,  the  Indian  handed  a  paper  to  Gerald  Morton. 
He  spoke,  not  in  the  forest-tongue,  but  in  clear  bold  English,  with  a  deep, 
gutteral  accent. 

"  The  American  Chief  sends  this  to  his  father.  He  bade  me  deliver  it, 
and  I  have  done  his  bidding." 

Then  wheeling  on  his  heel,  he  confronted  the  Captain : 

p  "  Give  me  that  sword.  The  sword  is  for  the  brave  man,  not  for  the 
coward.  A  brave  man  seeks  warriors  to  display  his  courage  :  a  coward 
frightens  old  men  and  weak  women.  Will  the  coward  in  a  red  coat  give 
me  the  sword,  or  must  I  take  it  ?" 

There  was  a  withering  scorn  in  the  Red-Man's  tone.  The  British  officer 
•tood  as  if  appalled  by  a  ghost. 

"  Your  brothers  are  tied,  as  cowards  should  be  tied,  who  put  on  the  war- 


THE    MANSION    ON    THE    SCHUYLKILL.  137 

nor's  dress  to  do  a  coward's  work,"  exclaimed  the  Indian.     •*  My  vvaniura 
came  on  them,  captured  them  and  tied  them  together  like  wolves  in  a  pack 
Come  !    We  are  waiting  for  you.    To-night  you  must  go  to  Valley  Forge." 

There  was  something  so  strange  in  the  clear  English  of  this  stern  Indian, 
that  the  bravo  stood  spell-bound,  as  though  it  was  but  the  voice  of  a  dream. 

At  this  moment,  two  savage  forms  drew  near,  through  the  smoke,  which 
rolling  away  from  the  door,  now  hung  coiled  in  wreaths  near  the  ceiling. 
Without  a  word,  the  Briton  was  led  from  the  room.  He  made  no  resistance, 
for  the  tomahawk  of  an  Indian  has  an  unpleasant  glitter.  As  he  disappeared, 
his  face  gathered  one  impotent  scowl  of  malice,  like  a  snake  that  hisses 
when  your  foot  is  on  its  head.  The  Astrologer  skulked  slowly  at  his  heels. 

The  Indian  was  alone  with  father  and  daughter. 

He  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  while  an  expression  of  deep  emotion 
came  over  his  bronzed  face. 

At  last  flinging  down  his  rifle,  he  extended  one  hand  to  the  old  man,  one 
to  the  crouching  woman. 

"  Father!"  he  groaned  in  a  husky  voice  :   "  Sister  !  I  have  come  at  last !" 

As  though  a  strange  electric  impulse  throbbed  from  their  hearts  and  joined 
them  all  together,  in  a  moment  the  old  man,  his  daughter  and  the  Indian 
lay  clasped  in  each  other's  arms. 

For  some  few  moments,  sobs,  tears,  broken  ejaculations  !  At  last  the 
old  man  bent  back  the  Indian's  head,  and  with  flashing  eyes,  perused  his 
image  in  his  face.  The  daughter  too,  without  a  fear,  clung  to  his  manly 
arm,  and  looked  tenderly  up  into  his  blue  eyes. 

"  Father,  sister  !  It  is  a  long  story,  but  I  will  tell  it  in  a  lew  words.  A 
white  man,  whom  you  had  done  wrong,  stole  me  from  your  house  thirty, 
three  years  ago.  He  was  an  outcast  from  his  kind  and  made  his  home  in 
the  wigwam  of  the  Indian.  While  the  warriors  taught  me  to  bend  the  bow 
and  act  a  warrior's  part,  he  learned  me  the  tongue  of  my  father.  I  grew  up 
at  once  a  white  man  and  an  Indian.  But,  two  moons  ago,  the  white  man, 
whose  name  we  never  knew,  but  who  was  called  the  Grey-hawk,  told  me 
the  secret  of  my  father's  name.  Then,  he  died.  I  was  a  warrior;  a  chief 
among  warriors.  I  came  toward  the  rising  of  the  sun  to  see  my  father  and 
my  sister.  One  day  I  beheld  the  huts  of  Valley  Forge — I  am  now  a  warrior 
under  the  American  chief.  My  band  have  done  him  service  for  many  a  day; 
he  is  a  Man.  Father,  I  see  you  !  Sister,  I  love  you  !  But  ask  no  more  ; 
for  never  will  the  White  Indian  forsake  his  forest  to  dwell  within  walls — never 
will  the  Chief  lay  down  his  blanket,  to  put  on  the  dress  of  the  white  race  !" 

The  Sister  looked  tenderly  into  her  brother's  face.  The  old  man,  as  if 
bis  only  wish  had  been  fulfiilled,  gazed  long  and  earnestly  on  the  bronzed 
countenance  of  his  child.  He  murmured  the  name  of  the  man  whom  he 
had  darkly,  terribly  wronged.  Then  with  a  prayer  on  his  lips,  he  sank 
back  in  the  arm  chair. 

Ho  was  dead. 
9 


138  THE    WISSAHfKON. 

On  his  glassy  eye  and  fallen  jaw  streamed  the  warmth  of  the  fire,  while 
at  his  feet  knelt  the  white-Indian,  his  bronzed  face  glowing  in  the  same 
beam,  that  revealed  his  sister's  face,  pale  as  marble  and  bathed  in  tears. 

Months  passed  away.  Winter  with  its  ice  and  snow  was  gone.  Laurel 
Hill  was  green  and  shadowy  with  summer.  The  deer  browsed  quietly 
along  the  lawn  of  the  old  mansion,  and  the  river,  which  the  Indian  called 
Manayong,  went  laughing  and  shouting  over  its  rocky  bed. 

It  was  summer,  and  Sir  William  Howe  had  deserted  Philadelphia,  when 
one  day,  there  came  a  messenger  to  Congress,  in  the  old  State  House,  that 
a  battle  had  been  fought  near  Monmouth.  A  battle  in  which  Sir  William 
learned,  that  Freedom  had  survived  the  disease  and  nakedness  and  starvation 
of  Valley  Forge. 

On  that  summer  day,  a  young  woman  sat  alone  in  the  chamber  of  the  old 
mansion,  where  her  father  had  died  six  months  before.  Alone  by  the  win 
dow,  the  breeze  playing  with  her  golden  hair,  the  sunlight — stealing  ray  by 
ray  through  thick  vines — falling  in  occasional  gleams  over  her  young  face. 

Her  blue  eye  was  fixed  upon  a  miniature,  which  pictured  a  manly  face, 
with  dark  eyes  and  raven  hair,  relieved  by  the  breast  of  a  manly  form,  clad 
in  the  blue  uniform  of  the  Continental  Army.  It  was  the  Betrothed  of 
Amable  ;  the  war  once  over,  freedom  won,  they  were  to  be  married.  He 
was  far  away  with  the  army,  but  her  voiceless  prayers  invoked  blessings  on 
his  head. 

While  the  maiden  sat  there,  contemplating  her  lover's  picture,  a  form 
came  stealing  from  the  shadows  of  the  room  :  a  face  looked  over  her 
shoulder. 

It  was  the  White-Indian  in  his  war-blanket. 

His  face  became  terribly  agitated  as  he  beheld  that  picture. 

At  last  the  maiden  heard  his  hard-drawn  breath.  She  turned  her  head 
and  greeted  him  at  first  with  a  smile,  but  when  she  beheld  the  horror 
glooming  over  his  face,  she  felt  her  heart  grow  cold. 

"  Whence  come  you,  brother  ?" 

"  Monmouth  !" 

"  Have  you  no  message  for  me  ?     No  word  from 

The  Brother  extended  his  hand,  and  laid  the  hilt  of  a  broken  sword  gently 
on  her  bosom. 

He  said  no  word,  but  she  knew  it  all.  She  saw  the  blood  upon  the  hilt ; 
«he  saw  her  brother's  face,  she  knew  that  she  was  Widow  and  Virgin  at 
once. 

It  was  a  dark  hour  in  that  old  Mansion  on  the  Schuylkill. 

A  graveyard  among  the  hills,  a  small  space  of  green  earth  separated  from 
the  forest  by  a  stone  wall.  In  the  midst,  a  wild  cherry  tree,  flinging  its 
shadow  over  a  white  tombstone  and  a  new  made  grave. 


THE   MANSION    ON    THE   SCHUYLKILL.  130 

Sunset  steals  through  these  branches,  over  the  white  tombstone,  down 
into  the  recesses  of  the  new-made  grave.  What  is  this  we  see  beside  the 
grave  ?  A  man  in  Indian  attire,  bending  over  a  coffin,  on  whose  plate  is 
inscried  a  single  word — 

A  M  A  B  L  E . 

Ah,  do  not  lift  the  lid,  ah,  do  not  uncover  that  cold  face  to  the  light!  Ah, 
do  not  lift  the  lid,  for  then  the  breeze  will  play  with  her  tresses  ;  then  the 
air  will  kiss  her  cheek.  Her  marble  cheek,  now  colorless  forever. 

The  White-Indian  knelt  there,  the  last  of  his  race,  bending  over  the  corse 
of  that  fair  girl.  No  tear  in  his  eye,  no  sob  in  his  bosom.  All  calm  as 
stone,  he  bent  there  above  his  dead.  Soon  the  coffin  was  lowered  ;  anon 
the  grave  was  filled.  The  star-beams  looked  solemnly  down  through  the 
trees,  upon  the  grave  of  that  fair  girl. 

The  Indian  broke  a  few  leaves  from  the  wild  cherry  tree,  and  went  on 
his  way. 

He  was  never  seen  on  the  banks  of  the  Manayong  again. 

Long  years  afterward,  in  the  far  wilds  of  the  forest,  a  brave  General  who 
had  won  a  battle  over  the  Indian  race,  stood  beside  an  oaken  tree,  contem 
plating  with  deep  sorrow,  the  corse  of  a  friendly  savage.  He  lay  there, 
stiff  and  cold,  the  wreck  of  a  giant  man,  his  bronzed  face,  lighter  in  hue 
than  the  visages  of  his  brother  Indians.  He  lay  there,  with  blanket  and 
wampum  belt  and  tomahawk  about  him,  the  rifle  in  his  grasp,  the  plume 
drooping  over  his  bared  brow. 

He  had  died,  shielding  the  brave  General  from  the  tomahawk.  Yes, 
with  one  sudden  bound,  he  sprang  before  him,  receiving  on  his  breast,  the 
blow  intended  for  Mad  Antony  Wayne. 

And  Wayne  stood  over  him — his  eyes  wet  with  a  soldier's  tears — sor 
rowing  for  him  as  for  a  rude  Indian. 

Little  did  he  think  that  a  white  man  lay  there  at  his  feet! 

Ah,  who  can  tell  the  magic  of  those  forests,  the  wild  enchantment  of  the 
chase,  the  savage  witchery  of  the  Indian's  life  ?  Here  was  a  man,  a  white 
man,  who,  bred  to  Indian  life,  had  in  his  mature  manhood,  rejected  wealth 
and  civilization,  for  the  deep  joy  of  the  wigwam  and  the  prairie,  and  now 
lay  stretched — a  cold  corse,  yet  a  warrior  corse — on  the  banks  of  the  Miami » 
AN  INDIAN  TO  THE  LAST. 


NOTE. — This  fine  old  mansion,  at  the  Falls  of  the  Schuylkill,  was  formerly  the 
residence  of  General  Mifflin.  The  view  from  the  porch  of  this  mansion  was  always 
renowned  for  its  beauty.  It  is  proper  to  mention,  that  the  old  bridge  was  consumed 
by  fire.  The  railroad  bridge — a  splendid  stone  structure  in  modern  style — gives  addi 
tional  beauty  to  the  prospect.  The  supernatural  part  of  this  legend,  is  not  to  be 
laid  to  the  author's  invention,  but  to  the  superstition  of  the  Era,  in  which  it  occurred. 
This  ground — around  the  Falls,  on  the  shores  of  the  Schuylkill — is  rich  in  legends 
of  the  most  picturesque  and  romantic  character. 


140  THE   WISSAHIKON. 


X.— THE  GRAVEYARD  OF  GERMANTOWN. 

IN  Germ-ntown  there  is  an  old-time  graveyard.  No  gravelled  walks 
iio  delicate  sculpturings  of  marble,  no  hot-beds  planted  over  corruption  are 
there.  It  is  an  old-time  graveyard,  defended  from  the  highway  and  encirc 
ling  fields  by  a  thick  stone  wall.  On  the  north  and  west  it  is  shadowed  by 
a  range  of  trees,  the  sombre  verdure  of  the  pine,  the  leafy  magnificence  of 
the  marple  and  horse-chesnut,  mingling  in  one  rich  mass  of  foliage.  Wild 
flowers  are  in  that  graveyard,  and  tangled  vines.  It  is  white  with  tomb 
stones.  They  spring  up,  like  a  host  of  spirits  from  the  green  graves  ;  they 
seem  to  struggle  with  each  other  for  space,  for  room.  The  lettering  on  these 
tombstones,  is  in  itself,  a  rude  history.  Some  are  marked  with  rude  words 
in  Dutch,  some  in  German,  one  or  more  in  Latin,  one  in  Indian  ;  others  in 
English.  Some  bend  down,  as  if  hiding  their  rugged  faces  from  the  light, 
some  start  to  one  side ;  here  and  there,  rank  grass  chokes  them  from  the 
light  and  air. 

You  may  talk  to  me  of  your  fashionable  graveyards,  where  Death  is 
made  to  look  pretty  and  silly  and  fanciful,  but  for  me,  this  one  old  grave, 
yard,  with  its  rank  grass  and  crowded  tombstones,  has  more  of  God  and 
Immortality  in  it,  than  all  your  elegant  cemetries  together.  I  love  its  soil : 
its  stray  wild  flowers  are  omens  to  me,  of  a  pleasant  sleep,  taken  by  weary 
ones,  who  were  faint  with  living  too  long. 

It  is  to  me.  a  holy  thought,  that  here  my  bones  will  one  day  repose.  For 
here,  in  a  lengthening  line,  extend  the  tombstones,  sacred  to  the  memory  of 
m»r  fathers,  far  back  in  to  time.  They  sleep  here.  The  summer  day  may 
dawn,  the  winter  storm  may  howl,  and  still  they  sleep  on.  No  careless 
eye  looks  over  these  walls.  There  is  no  gaudiness  of  sculpture  to  invite 
the  lounger.  As  for  a  pic  nic  party,  in  an  old  graveyard  like  this,  it  would 
be  blasphemy.  None  come  save  those  who  have  friends  here.  Sisters 
come  to  talk  quietly  with  the  ghost  of  sisters  ;  children  to  invoke  the  spirit 
of  that  Mother  gone  home;  I,  too  sometimes,  panting  to  get  free  from  the 
city,  come  here  to  talk  with  my  sisters — for  two  of  mine  are  here — with  my 
father — for  that  clover  blooms  above  his  grave. 

It  seems  to  me,  too,  when  bending  over  that  grave,  that  the  Mother's 
form,  awakened  from  her  distant  grave,  beneath  the  sod  of  Delaware,  is  also 
here! — Here,  to  commune  with  the  dead,  whom  she  loved  while  living; 
here,  with  the  spirits  of  my  fathers  ! 

I  cannot  get  rid  of  the  thought  that  good  spirits  love  that  graveyard.  For 
all  at  once,  when  you  enter  its  walls,  you  feel  sadder,  better  ;  more  satisfied 
with  life,  yet  less  reluctant  to  die.  It  is  such  a  pleasant  spot,  to  take  a  long 
repose.  I  have  seen  it  in  winter,  when  there  was  snow  upon  the  graves, 
and  the  sleigh-bells  tinkled  in  the  street.  Then  calmly  and  tenderly  upon 
the  white  tombstones,  played  and  lingered  the  cold  rnoori. 


TEIE   GRAVEYARD    OF    GERMANTOWN.  14, 

In  summer,  too,  when  the  leaves  were  on  the  trees,  and  the  grass  upon 
the  sod,  when  the  chirp  of  the  cricket  and  katy-did  broke  shrilly  over  the 
graves  through  the  silence  of  night.  In  early  spring,  when  there  was  scarce 
a  blade  of  grass  to  struggle  against  the  north  wind,  and  late  in  fall  when 
November  baptizes  you  with  her  cloud  of  gloom,  I  have  been  there. 

And  in  winter  and  summer,  in  fall  and  spring,  in  calm  or  storm,  in  sick 
ness  or  health,  in  every  change  of  this  great  play,  called  life,  does  my  heart 
go  out  to  that  graveyard,  as  though  part  of  it  was  already  there. 

Nor  do  I  love  it  the  less,  because  on  every  blade  of  grass,  in  every  flower, 
that  wildly  blooms  there,  you  find  written  : — "  This  soil  is  sacred  from 
creeds.  Here  rests  the  Indian  and  the  white  man  ;  here  sleep  in  one  sod, 
the  Catholic,  Presbyterian,  Quaker,  Methodist,  Lutheran,  Mennonist,  Deist, 
Infidel.  Here,  creeds  forgotten,  all  are  men  and  women  again,  and  not  one 
but  is  a  simple  child  of  God." 

This  graveyard  was  established  by  men  of  all  creeds,  more  than  a  century 
ago.  May  that  day  be  darkness,  when  creeds  shall  enter  this  rude  gate. 
Better  had  that  man  never  been  born,  who  shall  dare  pollute  this  soil  with 
the  earthly  clamor  of  sect.  But  on  the  man,  who  shall  repair  this  wall,  or 
keep  this  graveyard  sacred  from  the  hoofs  of  improvement,  who  shall  do  his 
best  to  keep  our  old  graveyard  what  it  is,  on  that  man,  be  the  blessings  of 
God  ;  may  his  daughters  be  virtuous  and  beautiful,  his  sons  gifted  and  brave. 
In  his  last  hour,  may  the  voices  of  angels  sing  hymns  to  his  passing  soul. 
If  there  was  but  one  flower  in  the  world,  I  would  plant  it  on  that  man's 
grave. 

It  was  in  November,  not  in  chill,  gloomy  November,  but  in  golden  No 
vember,  when  Paradise  opens  her  windows  to  us,  and  wafts  the  Indian 
Summer  over  the  land,  that  I  came  to  the  graveyard. 

There  was  a  mellow  softness  in  the  air,  a  golden  glow  upon  the  sky, 
glossy,  gorgeous  richness  of  foliage  on  the  trees,  when  I  went  in.  It  was 
in  the  afternoon.  The  sun  was  half-way  down  the  sky.  Everything  was 
still.  A  religious  silence  dwelt  all  about  the  graveyard. 

An  aged  man,  with  a  rosy  countenance,  and  snow-white  hair,  sat  on  a 
grave.  His  coat  was  strait  and  collarless,  his  hat  broad  in  the  rim.  At 
once  I  knew  him  for  a  Disciple  of  Saint  William,  the  Patron  Saint  of  Penn 
sylvania.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  something  at  his  feet.  I  drew  nigh, 
and  beheld  two  skeletons  resting  on  the  grass  near  a  new-made  grave. 

The  old  Quaker  greeted  me  kindly,  and  I  sat  down  opposite  on  a  grassy 
mound.  The  skeletons  presented  a  strange,  a  meaning  sight.  Around 
their  crumbling  bones  were  fluttering  the  remnants  of  soldiers'  uniform. 
Buttons,  stamped  with  an  eagle,  pieces  of  the  breast-belt,  fragments  of  mili 
tary  boots — ah,  sad  relics  of  the  fight  of  Germantown  !  The  sunlight 
streamed  slowly  over  their  skulls,  lighting  up  the  hollow  orbits,  where  once 
shone  the  eyes  ;  and  over  the  bones  of  the  hand,  protruding  from  the  crumb 
ing  uniform. 


142  THE    WISSAHIKON. 

We  sat  for  a  long  while  in  silence. 

At  last  the  Quaker  spoke. 

44 1  am  trying  to  remember  which  is  John  and  which  is  Jacob?"  said  he. 

"  John  ? — Jacob  ?" 

"  Truly  so.  For  I  knew  them  well.  I  was  but  a  youth  then — on  the 
day  of  the  battle,  thee  minds  ?  The  fourth  of  the  tenth  month,  1777 ! 
Jacob  was  a  fine  young  man,  with  light  curly  hair;  he  was  married.  John 
was  dark-haired,  something  younger  than  Jacob,  but  quite  as  good  looking. 
They  were  both  with  Washington  at  Skippack  ;  with  him  they  came  to  the 
battle—" 

"  Ah,  you  remember  the  battle  ?" 

"  As  well  as  if  it  happened  last  week.  Did  thee  ever  see  a  small,  one 
story  house,  about  half-way  down  Germantown,  with  1713  on  its  gable? 
Jacob's  wife  lived  there.  On  the  morning  of  the  battle,  about  ten  o'clock, 
she  was  standing  in  the  door,  her  babe  resting  on  her  bosom.  There  was 
a  thick  fog  in  the  air.  She  was  listening  to  the  firing.  I  stood  on  the 
opposite  side,  thinking  what  a  fine-looking  wife  she  was,  for  does  thee  mind, 
she  was  comely.  Her  hair  was  glossy  and  brown ;  her  eyes  dark.  She 
was  not  very  tall,  but  a  wondrous  pleasant  woman  to  look  upon.  As  I 
stood  looking  at  her,  who  should  come  running  down  the  road,  but  Jacob 
there,  with  this  same  uniform  on,  and  a  gun  in  his  hand.  I  can  see  him 
yet ;  and  hear  his  voice,  as  plain  as  I  now  hear  my  own. 

"  «  Hannah  !  Hannah  !'  he  cried,  *  we've  beat  'em  !'  And  he  ran  towards 
her,  and  she  held  the  babe  out  to  him,  but  just  at  that  moment,  he  fell  in  the 
middle  of  the  road,  torn  almost  in  two  by  a  cannon  ball,  or  some  devil's- 
work  of  that  kind.  Young  man,  it  was  a  very  sad  sight !  To  see  that 
poor  Jacob,  running  to  kiss  his  wife  and  child,  and  just  as  the  wife  calls  and 
the  babe  holds  out  its  little  hands — ah !" 

The  Quaker  rubbed  his  eye,  blaming  the  road  side  dust  for  the  tear  that 
glimmered  there. 

"And  John?" 

"  Poor  John  !  We  found  him  after  the  battle  in  Chew's  field.  He  was 
quite  dead — look  !  Thee  can  see  the  bnllet  hole  in  his  brain." 

And  with  his  cane,  he  pointed  to  the  scull  of  the  soldier. 

"  We  buried  them  together.  They  were  fine-looking  young  men,  and 
many  of  us  shed  tears,  when  we  put  the  sod  upon  their  brows." 

"  Sod  ?     Had  you  no  coffins  ?" 

The  old  man  opened  his  eyes. 

"  Had  thee  seen  the  village  people,  taking  their  barn-doors  off  their  hinges^ 
so  that  they  might  carry  away  the  dead  bodies  by  dozens  at  a  time,  and 
bury  them  in  the  fields,  whenever  a  big  hole  was  dug — had  thee  seen  this, 
thee  would'nt  ask  such  a  question  !" 

"  Was  there  not  a  great  deal  of  glory  on  that  day?" 

'» If  thee  means,  that  it  was  like  an  election  parade,  or  a  fourth  of  July 


THE  GRAVEYARD  OF  GERMAN  TO  VVN.          1U 

gathering,  I  can  tell  thee,  there  was  not  much  glory  of  that  kind.  If  thee 
means  that  it  made  my  blood  boil  to  see  the  bodies  of  my  neighbois  carried 
by,  some  dead,  some  groaning  yet,  some  howling  mad  with  pain  ;  others 
with  legs  torn  off,  others  with  arms  rent  at  the  very  shoulder,  here  one  with 
his  jaw  broken,  there  another  with  his  eyes  put  out ; — if  thee  means  that 
boiling  of  the  blood,  caused  by  sights  like  these,  then  I  can  tell  thee,  there 
was  plenty  of  glory!" 

"  The  battle  was  bloody  then  ?" 

"  Did  thee  ever  see  how  rich  the  grass  grows  on  Chew's  lawn  ?  How 
many  hearts  spent  their  last  blood  to  fatten  that  soil  ?" 

"  You  helped  to  bury  the  dead  ?" 

"  I  remember  well,  that  thy  grandfather — he  is  buried  yonder — took  hold 
of  one  corner  of  a  barn-door,  while  I  and  two  friends  took  the  others.  There 
were  some  six  or  seven  bodies  piled  crosswise,  and  huddled  together  on  that 
barn-door.  We  took  them  to  the  fields  and  buried  them  in  a  big  pit.  t 
remember  one  fair-faced  British  officer;  his  ruffled  shirt  was  red  with  blood. 
He  was  a  tine-looking  young  man,  and  doubtless  had  a  wife  or  sister  in  Eng 
land.  I  pitied  him  very  much/' 

'  Were  you  near  the  scene  of  conflict  ?  I  do  not  wish  to  imply  that  you 
bore  arms,  for  your  principles  forbid  the  thought." 

"  I  can  remember  standing  in  my  father's  door,  when  a  wounded  soldier 
pursued  by  another,  fell  at  my  feet  crying  *  quarter  !'  I  remember  that  I 
seized  the  pursuer's  musket,  and  rapped  him  over  the  head,  after  which  he 
let  the  wounded  soldier  be." 

"  Did  you  hurt  him  much  ?" 

"  He  did'nt  move  afterward.  Some  evil  people  wished  to  make  it  ap 
pear,  that  I  killed  him.  But  thee  sees  that  was  false,  for  he  may  have  been 
very  tired  running  and  died  from  the  heat.  However,  I  hit  him  with  all 
my  strength." 

The  Quaker  held  out  his  right  arm,  which  was  an  arm  of  iron,  even  in 
its  withered  old  age. 

"  What  was  he  ?     British  or  American  ?" 

"  He  was  dressed  in  red,"  meekly  responded  the  Quaker. 

"  Did  you  see  General  Washington  during  the  fight  ?" 

"  I  saw  a  tall  man  of  majestic  presence  riding  a  grey  horse.  I  saw  him 
now  go  in  the  mist;  now  come  out  again;  now  here,  now  there.  One 
time  I  saw  him,  when  he  reigned  his  horse  in  front  of  Chew's  wall — he 
looked  terrible,  for  his  eyes  seemed  to  frown,  his  lips  were  clenched ;  his 
forehead  was  disfigured  by  a  big  vein  that  seemed  bursting  from  the  skin. 
He  was  covered  with  dust  and  blood — his  saddle-cloth  was  torn  by  bullets 
I  never  forgot  the  look  of  that  man,  nor  shall  I,  to  the  hour  of  my  death. 
That  man  they  told  me  was  George  Washington." 

"  Why  was  he  thus  moved  ?" 


144  THE    WISSAH1KON. 

•'  An  aid-cle.camp  had  just  told  him  that  one  of  his  Generals  was  dninK 
undei  a  hedge." 

"  Did  you  see  Cornwallis  ?" 

"  That  I  did.  He  was  riding  up  the  street,  as  fast  as  his  horse  could  go 
— a  handsome  man,  but  when  I  saw  him,  his  face  was  white  as  a  meal-bag. 
Thee  sees  he  was  a  brave  man,  but  friend  Washington  came  on  him  before 
day,  without  timely  notice." 

There  was  a  curious  twitch  about  the  Quaker's  mouth.  He  did  not  smile 
but  still  it  was  a  suspicious  shape  for  a  Quaker's  mouth. 

XL— "REMEMBER   PAOLI." 

HIST  ! — It  is  still  night ;  the  clear  sky  arches  above  ;  the  dim  woods  are 
all  around  the  field  ;  and  in  the  centre  of  the  meadow,  resting  on  the  grass 
crisped  by  the  autumnal  frosts,  sleep  the  worn  veterans  of  the  war,  dis 
heartened  by  want,  and  wearied  by  the  day's  march. 

It  is  still  night ;  and  the  light  of  the  scanty  fire  falls  on  wan  faces,  hol 
low  eyes,  and  sunken  cheeks  ;  on  tattered  apparel,  muskets  unfit  for  use, 
and  broken  arms. 

It  is  still  night ;  and  they  snatch  a  feverish  sleep  beside  the  scanty  fire, 
and  lay  th«m  down  to  dream  of  a  time  when  the  ripe  harvest  shall  no  more 
be  trodden  down  by  the  blood-stained  hoof — when  the  valley  shall  no  more 
be  haunted  by  the  Traitor-Refugee — when  Liberty  and  Freedom  shall  walk 
in  broadcloth,  instead  of  wandering  about  with  the  unshodden  feet,  and  the 
tattered  rags  of  want. 

It  is  still  night;  and  Mad  Anthony  Wayne  watches  while  his  soldiers 
sleep. 

He  watches  beside  the  camp-fire.  You  can  mark  his  towering  form,  his 
breadth  of  shoulders,  and  his  prominence  of  chest.  You  can  see  his  face 
by  the  red  light  of  the  fire — that  manly  face,  with  the  broad  forehead,  the 
marked  eye-brows,  over-arching  the  deep  hazel  eye,  that  lightens  and  gleams 
as  he  gazes  upon  the  men  of  his  band. 

You  can  note  the  uniform  of  the  Revolution — the  wide  coat  of  blue, 
yaried  by  the  buckskin  sword-belt,  from  which  depends  the  sword  that 
Wayne  alone  can  wield, — the  facings  of  buff,  the  buttons  rusted  by  the  dews 
of  night,  and  the  march-worn  trooper's  boots,  reaching  above  his  knees, 
with  the  stout  iron  spurs  standing  out  from  each  heel. 

Hist !     The  night  is  still,  but  there  is  a  sound  in  yonder  thicket. 

Look  !  can  you  see  nothing  ? 

No.  The  night  is  still — the  defenceless  Continentals  sleep  in  the  centre 
of  the  meadow — all  around  is  dark.  The  sky  above  is  clear,  but  the  stars 
give  forth  no  light.  The  wind  sweeps  around  the  meadow — dim  and  intlis 
tinct  it  sweeps,  and  is  silent  and  still.  I  can  see  nothing. 

Place  your  ear  to  th^  earth.     Hear  you  nothing  ? 


"  REMEMBER    PAOL1.  145 

Yes — yes.  A  slight  sound — a  distant  rumbling.  There  is  thunder  growl 
ing  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth,  but  it  is  distant.  It  is  like  the  murmur  on 
the  ocean,  ere  the  terrible  white  squall  sweeps  away  the  commerce  of  a  na 
tion — but  it  is  distant,  very  distant. 

Now  look  forth  on  the  night.  Cast  your  eye  to  the  thicket — see  you 
nothing  ? 

Yes — there  is  a  gleam  like  the  light  of  the  fire-fly.  Ha  !  It  lightens  on 
the  night — that  quivering  gleam  !  It  is  the  flash  of  swords — the  glittering 
of  arms  ! 

•*  Charge  upon  the  Rebels  !  Upon  them — over  them — no  quarter — no 
quarter  !" 

Watcher  of  the  night,  watcher  over  the  land  of  the  New  World,  watching 
over  the  fortunes  of  the  starved  children  of  Freedom — what  see  you  now  • 

A  band  of  armed  men,  mounted  on  stout  steeds,  with  swords  in  their  up 
lifted  hands.  They  sweep  from  the  thicket ;  they  encompass  the  meadow  » 
they  surround  the  Rebel  host ! 

The  gallant  Lord  Grey  rides  at  their  head.  His  voice  rings  out  clear 
and  loud  upon  the  frosty  air. 

"  Root  and  branch,  hip  and  thigh,  cut  them  down.  Spare  not  a  man- 
heed  never  a  cry  for  quarter.  Cut  them  down  !  Charge  for  England  and 
St.  George  !" 

And  then  there  was  uplifting  of  swords,  and  butchery  of  defenceless  mon, 
and  there  was  a  riding  over  the  wounded,  and  a  trampling  over  the  faces  of 
the  dying.  And  then  there  was  a  cry  for  quarter,  and  the  response — 

"  To  your  throats  take  that  !  We  give  you  quarter,  the  quarter  of  the 
sword,  accursed  Rebels  !" 

There  was  a  moment,  whose  history  was  written  with  good  sharp 
swords,  on  the  visages  of  dying  men. 

It  was  the  moment  when  the  defenceless  Continental  sprang  up  from  his 
hasty  sleep,  into  the  arms  of  the  merciless  death  !  It  was  the  moment 
when  Wayne  groaned  aloud  with  agony,  as  the  sod  of  Paoli  was  flooded 
with  a  pool  of  blood  that  poured  from  the  corses  of  the  slaughtered  soldiers 
of  his  band.  It  was  the  moment  when  the  cry  for  quarter  was  mocked — 
when  the  Rebel  clung  in  his  despair  to  the  stirrup  of  the  Britisher,  and 
clung  in  vain  ;  it  was  the  moment  when  the  gallant  Lord  Grey — that  gentle- 
man,  nobleman,  Christian — whose  heart  only  throbbed  with  generous  im 
pulses  ;  who  from  his  boyhood,  was  schooled  in  the  doctrines  of  mercy, 
halloed  his  war-dogs  on  to  the  slaughter,  and  shouted  up  to  the  star-lit 
Heavens,  until  the  angels  might  grow  sick  of  the  scene — 

"  Over  them — over  them — heed  never  a  cry — heed  never  a  voice  !  Rool 
and  branch  cut  them  down  ! — No  quarter  !" 

It  is  dark  and  troubled  night ;  and  the  Voice  of  Blood  goes  up  to  God, 
shrieking  for  vengeance  ! 

It  is  morning ;  sad  and  ghastly  morning  ;  and  the  first  sunbeams  shine 


J46  THE    WISSAHIKON. 

over  the  field,  which  was  yesternight  a  green  meadow — the  field  that  is  nov* 
an  Aceldema — a  field  of  blood,  strewn  with  heaps  of  the  dead,  arms  lorn 
from  the  body,  eyes  hollowed  from  the  sockets,  faces  turned  to  the  earth, 
and  buried  in  blood,  ghastly  pictures  of  death  and  pain,  painted  by  the  hand 
of  the  Briton,  for  the  bright  sun  to  shine  down  upon,  for  men  to  applaud, 
for  the  King  to  approve,  for  God  to  avenge. 

It  is  a  sad  and  ghastly  morning;  and  Wayne  stands  looking  over  the 
slaughtered  heaps,  surrounded  by  the  little  band  of  survivors,  and  as  he 
gazes  on  this  scene  of  horror,  the  Voice  of  Blood  goes  shrieking  up  to  God 
for  vengeance,  and  the  ghosts  of  the  slain  darken  the  portals  of  Heaven, 
with  their  forms  of  woe,  and  their  voices  mingle  with  the  Voice  of  Blood. 

Was  the  Voice  of  Blood  answered  ? 

A  year  passed,  and  the  ghosts  of  the  murdered  looked  down  from  the 
portals  of  the  Unseen,  upon  the  ramparts  of  Stony  Point. 

It  is  still  night ;  the  stars  look  calmly  down  upon  the  broad  Hudson  ,  and 
in  the  dim  air  of  night  towers  the  rock  and  fort  of  Stony  Point. 

The  Britishers  have  retired  to  rest.  They  sleep  in  their  warm,  quiet 
beds.  They  sleep  with  pleasant  dreams  of  American  maidens  dishonored, 
and  American  fathers,  with  grey  hairs  dabbled  in  blood.  They  shall  have 
merrier  dreams  anon,  I  trow.  Aye,  aye  ! 

All  is  quiet  around  Stony  Point :  the  sentinel  leans  idly  over  the  wall 
that  bounds  his  lonely  walk ;  he  gazes  down  the  void  of  darkness,  until  his 
glance  falls  upon  the  broad  and  magnificent  Hudson.  He  hears  nothing — 
he  sees  nothing. 

It  is  a  pity  for  that  sentinel,  that  his  eyes  are  not  keen,  and  his  glance 
piercing.  Had  his  eye-sight  been  but  a  little  keener,  he  might  have  seen 
Death  creeping  up  that  rampart  in  some  hundred  shapes — he  might  have 
seen  the  long  talon-like  fingers  of  the  skeleton-god  clutching  for  his  own 
plump  British  throat.  But  his  eye-sight  was  no-t  keen — more's  the  pity  for 
him. 

Pity  it  was,  that  the  sentinel  could  not  hear  a  little  more  keenly.  Had 
his  ears  been  good,  he  might  have  heard  a  little  whisper  that  went  from  two 
hundred  tongues,  around  the  ramparts  of  Stony  Point. 

"  General,  what  shall  be  the  watch-word  ?" 

And  then,  had  the  sentinel  inclined  his  ear  over  the  ramparts,  and  listened 
very  attentively  indeed,  he  might  have  heard  the  answer,  sweeping  up  to 
the  Heavens,  like  a  voioe  of  blood — 

"  Remember  Paoli !" 

Ho — ho  !  And  so  Paoli  is  to  be  remembered — and  so  the  Voice  of 
Blood  shrieked  not  in  the  ears  of  God  in  vain. 

And  so  the  vengeance  for  Paoli  is  creeping  up  the  ramparts  of  the  fort ! 
Ho — ho  !  Pity  Lord  Grey  were  not  here  to  see  the  sport ! 

The  sentinel  was  not  blessed  with  supernatural  syjht  or  hearing ;  he  did 


"REMEMBER    PAOLI."  147 

not  see  the  figures  creeping  up  the  ramparts  ;  he  did  not  hear  their  whispers^ 
until  a  rude  hand  clutched  him  round  the  throat,  and  up  to  the  Heavens 
•  wept  the  thunder-shout — 

"  Remember  Paoli !" 

And  then  a  rude  bayonet  pinned  him  to  the  wood  of  the  ramparts,  and 
then  the  esplanade  of  the  fort,  and  its  rooms  and  its  halls  were  filled  with 
silent  avengers,  and  then  came  Britishers  rushing  from  their  beds,  crying  for 
quarter,  and  then  they  had  it — the  quarter  of  Paoli ! 

And  then,  through  the  smoke,  and  the  gloom,  and  the  bloodshed  of  that 
terrible  night,  with  the  light  of  a  torch  now  falling  on  his  face,  with  the 
gleam  of  starlight  now  giving  a  spectral  appearance  to  his  features,  swept  on, 
right  on,  over  heaps  of  dead,  one  magnificent  form,  grasping  a  stout  broad 
sword  in  his  right  hand,  which  sternly  rose,  and  sternly  fell,  cutting  a 
British  soldier  down  at  every  blow,  and  laying  them  along  the  floor  of  the 
fort,  in  the  puddle  of  their  own  hireling  blood. 

Ghosts  of  Paoli — shout !  are  you  not  terribly  avenged  ? 

"  Spare  me — I  have  a  wife — a  child — they  wait  my  return  to  England ! 
Quarter — Quarter !" 

"  I  mind  me  of  a  man  named  Shoelmire — he  had  a  wife  and  a  child — a 
mother,  old  and  grey-haired,  waited  his  return  from  the  wars.  On  the  night 
of  Paoli,  he  cried  for  quarter  !  Such  quarter  I  give  you — Remember  Paoli !" 

"  Save  me — quarter  !" 

How  that  sword  hisses  through  the  air  ! 

"  Remember  Paoli !" 

*  I  have  a  grey-haired  father  !     Quarter  !" 

"  So  had  Daunton  at  Paoli !     Oh,  Remember  Paoli !" 

"  Spare  me — you  see  I  have  no  sword  ! — Quarter  !" 

"  Friend,  I  would  spare  thee  if  I  dared.  But  the  Ghosts  of  Paoli  nerve 
my  arm — '  We  had  no  swords  at  Paoli,  and  ye  butchered  us  !'  they  shriek." 

«*  Oh,  REMEMBER  PAOLI  !" 

And  as  the  beams  of  the  rising  moon,  streaming  through  yonder  narrovr 
w'ndow,  for  a  moment  light  up  the  brow  of  the  Avenger — dusky  with  bat 
tle-smoke,  red  with  blood,  deformed  by  passion — behold  !  That  sword 
describes  a  fiery  circle  in  the  air,  it  hisses  down,  sinks  into  the  victim's 
•kull  ?  No  ! 

His  arm  falls  nerveless  by  his  side  ;  the  sword,  that  grim,  rough  blade, 
dented  with  the  records  of  the  fight  of  Brandy  wine,  clatters  on  the  floor. 

"  It  is  my  duty — the  Ghosts  of  Paoli  call  to  me — but  I  cannot  kill  you  !' 
shouts  the  American  Warrior,  and  his  weaponless  hands  are  extended  to 
the  trembling  Briton. 

Ail  around  is  smoke,  and  darkness,  and  blood  ;  the  cry  for  quarter,  and 
the  death-sentence,  Remember  Paoli  !  but  here,  in  the  centre  of  the  scene 
of  slaughter—  yes,  in  the  centre  of  that  flood  of  moonlight,  pouring  through 
the  solitary  window,  behold  a  strange  and  impressive  sight : 


148  THE   W1SSAHIKON. 

The  kneeling  form — a  grey-haired  man,  who  has  grown  hoary  doing 
murder  in  the  name  of  Good  King  George, — his  hands  uplifted  in  trembling 
supplication,  his  eyes  starting  from  the  dilating  lids,  as  he  shrieks  for  the 
mercy  that  he  never  gave  ! 

The  figure  towering  above  him,  with  the  Continental  uniform  fluttering 
in  ribands  over  his  broad  chest,  his  hands  and  face  red  with  blood  and 
darkened  with  the  stain  of  powder,  the  veins  swelling  from  his  bared  throat, 
the  eye  glaring  from  his  compressed  brow — 

Such  were  the  figures  disclosed  by  the  sudden  glow  of  moonlight ! 

And  yet  from  that  brow,  dusky  with  powder,  red  with  blood,  there  broke 
the  gleam  of  mercy,  and  yet  those  hands,  dripping  with  crimson  stains, 
were  extended  to  lift  the  cringing  Briton  from  the  dust. 

44  Look  ye — old  man — at  Paoli — "  and  that  hoarse  voice,  heard  amid  the 
roar  of  midnight  conflict,  grew  tremulous  as  a  child's,  when  it  spoke  those 
fatal  words — at  Paoli  ;  "  even  through  the  darkness  of  that  terrible  night,  I 
beheld  a  boy,  only  eighteen  years  old,  clinging  to  the  stirrup  of  Lord  Grey  ; 
yes,  by  the  light  of  a  pistol-flash,  I  beheld  his  eyes  glare,  his  hands  quiver 
over  his  head,  as  he  shrieked  for  *  Quarter !'  ' 

44  And  he  spared  him  ?"  faltered  the  Briton. 

44  Now,  mark  you,  this  boy  had  been  consigned  to  my  care  by  his 
mother,  a  brave  American  woman,  who  had  sent  this  last  hope  of  her 
widowed  heart  forth  to  battle " 

"  And  he  spared  him — "  again  faltered  the  Briton. 

44  The  same  pistol,  which  flashed  its  red  light  over  his  pale  face,  and 
quivering  hands,  sent  the  bullet  through  his  brain.  Lord  Grey  held  that 
pistol,  Lord  Grey  heard  the  cry  for  mercy,  Lord  Grey  beheld  the  young 
face  trampled  into  mangled  flesh  by  his  horse's  hoofs  !  And  now,  sir — 
with  that  terrible  memory  of  Paoli  stamped  upon  my  soul — now,  while  that 
young  face,  with  the  red  wound  between  the  eyes,  passes  before  me,  I 
spare  your  life  ; — there  lies  my  sword — I  will  not  take  it  up  again  !  Cling 
to  me,  sir,  and  do  not  part  for  an  instant  from  my  side,  for  my  good  soldiers 
have  keen  memories.  I  may  forget,  but  hark !  Do  you  hear  them  ? 
They  do  not  massacre  defenceless  men  in  cold  blood — ah,  no  !  They 
only — 

"REMEMBER    PAOLI  I" 


BOOK  THIRD. 

BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 


(149) 


BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 


I.— THE    MOTHER    AND   HER   BABE. 

XuEjangels  of  God  look  down  from  the  sky  to  witness  the  deep  tender-  \ 
Hess  of  a  mother's  love.     The  angels  of  God  look  down  to  witness  that 
sight  which  angels  love  to  see — a  mother  watching  over  her  sleeping  babe. 

Yes,  if  even  these  awful  intelligences,  which  are  but  little  above  man,  and 
yet  next  to  God,  circling  there,  deep  after  deep,  far  through  the  homes  of 
eternity,  bend  from  the  sky  to  witness  a  scene  of  human  bliss  and  woe,  that 
sight  is  the  deep  agony  of  a  mother's  love  as  she  watches  o'er  her  sleeping 
child  ! 

The  deep  agony  of  a  mother's  love  ?  Yes  !  For  in  that  moment,  when 
gazing  upon  the  child — smiling  upon  it  as  it  sleeps — does  not  a  deep  agony 
seize  the  mother's  soul,  as  she  tries  to  picture  the  future  life  of  her  babe  ? — 
whether  that  child  will  rise  in  honor  and  go  down  to  death  in  glory,  or 
whether  the  dishonored  life  and  unwept  death  will  be  its  heritage  ? 

Ah,  the  sublimity  of  the  heart  is  there,  in  that  mother's  love,  which  even 
angels  bend  down  to  look  upon. 

One  hundred  years  ago,  in  a  far  New  England  town,  a  mother,  with  her 
babe  in  her  arms,  stole  softly  through  the  opened  doors  of  a  quaint  old  vil 
lage  church,  and  knelt  beside  the  altar. 

Yes,  while  the  stillness  of  the  Sabbath  evening  gathered  like  a  calm  from 
heaven  around  her, — while  a  glimpse  of  the  green  graveyard  came  through 
the  unclosed  windows,  and  the  last  beam  of  the  setting  sun  played  over  the 
rustic  steeple,  that  mother  knelt  alone,  and  placed  her  sleeping  boy  upou 
the  sacramental  altar. 

That  motner's  face  was  not  beautiful — care  had  been  too  busy  there — 
yet  there  was  a  beauty  in  that  uplifted  countenance,  in  those  upraised  eyes 
of  dark  deep  blue,  in  that  kneeling  form,  with  the  clasped  hands  pressed 
against  the  agitated  bosom, — a  beauty  holier  than  earth,  like  that  of  Mary, 
the  Virgin  Mother. 

And  why  comes  this  Mother  here  to  this  lonely  church,  in  this  twilight 
hour,  to  lay  her  babe  upon  the  altar,  and  kneel  in  silence  there  ? 

Listen  to  her  prayer. 

She  prays  the  FATHER,  yonder,  to  guide  the  boy  through  life,  to  make  him 
a  man  of  honor,  a  disciple  of  the  Lord. 

While  these  faltering  accents  fall  from  her  tongue,  behold !  There,  on 
the  racancy  of  the  twilight  air,  she  beholds  a  vision  of  that  boy's  life,  acf 


152  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

crowding  on  act,  scene  on  scene,  until  her  eyes  burn  in  their  sockets,  ami 
the  thick  sweat  stands  in  beads  upon  her  brow. 

First,  her  pale  face  is  stamped  with  fear.  She  beholds  her  boy,  now 
grown  to  young  manhood,  standing  upon  a  vessel's  deck,  far  out  uoon  the 
deep  waters.  The  waves  heave  around  him,  and  meet  above  the  mast,  and 
yet  that  boy  is  firm.  The  red  lightning  from  yon  dark  cloud,  comes  quiv 
ering  down  the  mainmast,  and  yet  his  cheek  does  not  pale,  his  breast  does 
not  shrink.  Yes,  while  the  stout  sailors  fall  cowering  upon  the  deck,  that 
boy  stands  firm,  and  laughs  at  the  storm — as  though  his  spirit  rose  to  meet 
»he  lightning  in  its  coming,  and  grapple  with  the  thunderbolt  in  its  way. 

This  vision  passes. 

The  mother,  kneeling  there,  beside  the  sacramental  altar,  beholds  another 
scene  of  her  boy's  life — another  and  another.  At  last,  with  eyes  swimming 
in  tears  of  joy,  she  beholds  a  scene,  so  glorious  drawn  there  upon  the  twi 
light  air — her  boy  grown  to  hardy  manhood,  riding  amid  embattled  legions, 
with  the  victor's  laurel  upon  his  brow — the  praises  of  a  nation  ringing  in  his 
ears — a  scene  so  glorious,  that  her  heart  is  filled  to  bursting,  and  that  deep 
"  I  thank  thee,  oh  my  God  !"  falls  tremulously  from  her  lips. 

The  next  scene,  right  after  the  scene  of  glory — it  is  dark,  crushing,  horri 
ble  !  The  mother  starts  appalled  to  her  feet — her  shriek  quivers  through 
the  lonely  church — she  spreads  forth  her  hands  over  the  sleeping  babe — 
she  calls  to  God  ! 

"  Father  in  Heaven  !  take,  O  take  this  child  while  he  is  yet  innocent ! 
/  Let  him  not  live  to  be  a  man — a  demon  in  human  shape — a  curse  to  his  race .'" 

And  as  she  stands  there,  quivering  and  pale,  and  cold  with  horror — look  ' 
That  child,  laid  there  on  the  sacramental  altar,  opens  its  clear  dark  eyes, 
ar.d  claps  its  tiny  hands,  and  smiles  ! 

That  child  was  BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 

Near  half  a  century  had  passed  away.  It  was  night  in  that  New  Eng 
land  town,  where,  forty-five  years  before,  that  mother,  in  the  calmness  of 
the  Sabbath  evening,  brought  her  babe  and  laid  it  on  the  altar. 

It  was  midnight.  The  village  girl  had  bidden  her  lover  a  last  good-night, 
that  good  old  father  had  lifted  up  his  voice  in  prayer,  with  his  children  all 
around  him — it  was  midnight,  and  the  village  people  slept  soundly  in 
their  beds. 

All  at  once,  rising  from  the  deep  silence,  a  horrid  yell  went  up  to  the 
midnight  sky.  All  at  once  a  blaze  of  fire  burst  over  the  roof.  Look  yon 
der  ! — That  father  murdered  on  his  own  threshhold — that  mother  stabbed 
in  the  midst  of  her  children — that  maiden  kneeling  there,  pleading  for  life, 
as  the  sharp  steel  crashes  into  her  brain  ! 

Then  the  blood  flows  in  the  startled  streets — then  British  troopers  flit  to 
and  fro  in  the  red  light — then,  rising  in  the  centre  of  the  town,  that  quiet 
village  church,  with  its  rustic  steeple,  towers  into  the  blaze. 


THE    MOTHER   AND    THE    BABE.  153 

And  there — oh,  Father  of  Mercy  ! — there,  in  that  steeple,  stands  a  soldiei 
with  a  dark  cloak  half-wrapped  around  his  red  uniform — yes,  there  he  stands, 
with  folded  arms,  and  from  that  height  surveys  with  a  calm  joy,  the  horrid 
scene  of  massacre  below. 

Now,  mother  of  Arnold,  look  from  Heaven  and  weep  !  Forty-five  years 
ago,  you  laid  your  child  upon  the  sacramental  altar  of  this  church,  and  now 
he  stands  in  yonder  steeple,  drinking  in  with  a  calm  joy,  the  terrible  cries 
of  old  men,  and  trembling  women,  and  little  children,  hewn  down  in  hideous 
murder,  before  his  very  eyes. 

Look  there,  and  learn  what  a  devil  REMORSE  can  make  of  such  a  man  ! 

Here  are  the  faces  he  has  known  in  Childhood — the  friends  of  his  man 
hood — the  matrons,  who  were  little  girls  when  he  was  a  boy — here  they 
are,  hacked  by  British  swords,  and  he  looks  on  and  smiles  ! 

At  last,  the  cries  are  stilled  in  death  ;  the  last  flash  of  the  burning  town 
glares  over  the  steeple,  and  there,  attired  in  that  scarlet  uniform,  his  bronzed 
face  stamped  with  the  conflict  of  hideous  passions — there,  smiling  still  amic' 
the  scenes  of  ruin  and  blood,  stands  BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 

That  was  the  last  act  of  the  Traitor  on  our  soil.  In  a  few  days  he  sailed 
from  our  shores,  and  came  back  no  more. 

And  now,  as  he  goes  yonder,  on  his  awful  way,  while  millions  curse  the 
echo  of  his  name,  in  yonder  lonely  room  two  orphans  bless  that  name. 

What  is  this  you  say  ?  Orphans  bless  the  name  of  Arnold  ?  Yes,  my 
friends — for  there  was  a  night  when  those  orphans  were  without  a  crust  of 
bread,  while  their  father  lay  mouldering  on  the  sod  of  Bunker  Hill.  Yes, 
the  Legislature  of  Massachusetts  had  left  these  children  to  the  cold  mercy  of 
the  world,  and  that  when  they  bore  his  name  who  fell  on  Bunker  Hill — 
the  immortal  WARREN. 

While  they  sate  there,  hungry  and  cold,  no  fire  on  the  hearth,  not  a  crust 
of  bread  upon  the  table,  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  tearful  face  of  the  good 
woman  who  gave  them  the  shelter  of  a  roof,  a  letter  came,  and  in  its  folds 
five  hundred  dollars  from  Benedict  Arnold. 

This  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was  steeling  his  soul  to  the  guilt  of 
Treason.  This  at  the  moment  when  his  fortune  had  been  scattered  in  ban 
quets  and  pageants — when  assailed  by  clamorous  creditors,  he  was  ready  to 
sell  his  soul  for  gold. 

From  the  last  wreck  of  his  fortune,  all  that  had  been  left  from  the  para 
sites  who  fed  upon  him,  while  they  could,  and  then  stung  the  hand  that  fed 
them,  he  took  five  hundred  dollars  and  sent  them  to  the  children  of  his 
eomrade,  the  patriot  Warren. 

Is  it  true,  that  when  the  curse  of  all  wronged  orphans  quivers  up  yonder, 
the  Angels  of  God  shed  tears  at  that  sound  of  woe  ?     Then,  at  the  awful 
hour  when  Arnold's  soul  went  up  to  judgment,  did  the  prayer's  of  Warren's 
orphan  children  go  up  there,  and  like  Angels,  plead  for  him   with  GOD 
10 


BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 


II.— THE    DRUGGIST  OF    NEW    HAVEN. 

LET  us  look  at  his  life  between  these  periods  ;  let  us  follow  the  varied 
and  tumultuous  course  of  forty-iive  years,  and  learn  how  the  innocent  and 
smiling  babe,  became  the  Outcast  of  his  native  land. 

The  course  of  this  strange  history,  will  lead  us  to  look  upon  two  men  : 

First,  a  brave  and  noble  man,  whose  hand  was  firm  as  his  heart  was  true, 
at  once  a  Knight  worthy  of  the  brightest  days  of  chivalry,  and  a  Soldier 

beloved  by  his  countrymen  ;  honored  by  the  friendship  of  Washington 

that  man, — BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 

Then,  a  bandit  and  an  outcast,  a  man  panoplied  in  hideous  crimes,  so 
dark,  so  infamous,  that  my  tongue  falters  as  it  speaks  his  name — BENEDICT 
ARNOLD. 

Let  me  confess,  that  when  I  first  selected  this  theme.  I  only  thought  of 
its  melo-dramatic  contrasts,  its  strong  lights  and  deep  shadows,  its  incidents 
of  wild  romance. 

But  now,  that  I  have  learned  the  fearful  lesson  of  this  life,  let  me  frankly 
confess,  that  in  the  pages  of  history  or  fiction,  there  is  no  tragedy  to  com 
pare  with  the  plain  history  of  Benedict  Arnold.  It  is,  in  one  word,  a  Par 
adise  Lost,  brought  down  to  our  own  times  and  homes,  and  told  in  familiar 
language  of  everyday  life.  Through  its  every  page,  aye  from  the  smiling 
autumnal  landscape  of  Kenebec,  from  the  barren  rock  of  Quebec,  or  the 
green  heights  of  Hudson,  there  glooms  one  horrid  phantom,  with  a  massive 
forehead  and  deep-set  eyes,  the  Lucifer  of  the  story Benedict  Arnold. 

The  man  who  can  read  his  life,  in  all  its  details,  without  tears,  has  a 
heart  harder  than  the  roadside  flint. 

One  word  in  regard  to  the  infancy  of  Arnold. 

You  have  doubtless  seen,  in  the  streets  of  our  large  cities,  the  painful 
spectacle  of  a  beggar-women,  tramping  about  with  a  deformed  child  in  her 
arms,  making  a  show  of  its  deformity,  exciting  sympathy  by  the  exhibition 
of  its  hideousness  ?  Does  the  poor  child  fail  to  excite  sympathy,  when 
attired  in  a  jacket  and  trowsers,  as  a  little  boy  1  Then,  the  gipsey  conceals 
its  deformed  limbs  under  a  frock,  covers  its  wan  and  sickly  face  with  a 
bonnet. 

And  she  changes  it  from  to-day,  making  deformity  always  new,  sickness, 
rags  and  ulcers  always  marketable. 

There  is  a  class  of  men,  who  always  remind  me  of  this  crafty  beggar- 
woman.  They  are  the  journeymen  historians,  the  petty  compilers  of  pom 
pous  falsehood,  who  prevail  in  the  vincinity  of  bookseller's  kitchens,  and 
acquire  corpulence. 

As  the  beggar-woman  has  her  Deformed  child,  so  these  Historians  who 
work  by  the  line  and  yard,  have  their  certain  class  of  Incidents,  which  they 
crowd  iuto  all  their  Compilations,  whether  Histories,  Lectures,  or  Pictorial 


THE  DRUGGIST    OF    NEW    HAVEN.  155 

abominations,  dressing  them  somewhat  variously,  in  order  to  suit  the  changes 
of  time  and  place. 

For  example  ;  the  first  English  writers  who  undertook  the  history  oi 
Napoleon,  propagated  various  stories  about  his  infancy,  which,  in  point  of 
truth  and  tragic  interest,  remind  us  of  Blue-beard  and  Cock-robin.  The 
same  stories  had  been  previously  told  of  Alexander,  Caesar,  Richlieu,  and 
lately  we  have  seen  them  revived  in  a  new  shape,  in  order  to  suit  the  in 
fantile  days  of  Santa  Anna. 

These  stereotyped  fables — the  Deformed  children  of  History — are  in  fact, 
to  be  found  in  every  Biography,  written  by  an  enemy.  They  may  wear 
trousers  in  one  history,  put  on  a  frock  in  another,  but  still  cannot  altogether 
hide  their  original  features.  Cloak  it  as  you  may,  the  Deformed  child  of 
history  appears  wherever  we  find  it,  just  what  it  is,  a  puny  and  ridiculous 
libel. 

One  of  these  Deformed  children  lurks  in  the  current  life  of  Arnold. 

It  is  the  grave  story  of  the  youth  of  Benedict,  being  passed  away  in  va 
rious  precocious  atrocities.  He  strewed  the  road  with  pounded  glass,  in 
order  that  other  little  boys  might  cut  their  feet ;  he  fried  frogs  upon  a  bake- 
iron  heated  to  an  incredible  intensity  ;  he  geared  flies  in  harness,  decapitated 
grasshoppers,  impaled  "  Katy-dids." 

So  says  the  history. 

Is  not  this  a  very  dignified,  very  solemn  thing  for  the  Historian's  notice  ? 

Why  did  he  not  pursue  the  subject,  and  state  that  at  the  age  of  two  years, 
Benedict  Arnold  was  deeply  occupied  in  the  pursuit  of  Latin,  Sanscript^ 
Hebrew,  Moral  Philosophy  and  the  Philosopher's  stone  ? 

Because  the  latter  part  of  a  man's  life  is  made  infamous  by  his  crimes, 
must  your  grave  Historian  ransack  Blue-beard  and  Cock-robin,  in  order  to 
rake  up  certain  delectable  horrors,  with  which  to  adorn  the  history  of  his 
childhood  ? 

In  our  research  into  Arnold's  life,  we  must  bear  one  important  fact  in 
mind.  After  he.  had  betrayed  his  country,  it  was  deemed  not  only  justi 
fiable  to  chronicle  every  blot  and  spec  in  his  character,  but  highly  praise 
worthy  to  tumble  the  overflowing  inkstand  of  libel  upon  every  vestige  of 
his  name. 

That  he  comes  down  to  our  time,  with  a  single  good  deed  adhering  to  his 
memory,  has  always  seemed  miraculous  to  me. 

With  these  introductory  remarks,  let  us  pursue  the  history. 

It  was  in  the  city  of  New  Haven,  on  a  cold  day  of  April,  1775,  that  a 
man  of  some  thirty-five  years,  stood  behind  a  counter,  an  apron  on  his 
manly  chest,  mixing  medicines,  pasting  labels  on  phials,  and  putting  poisons 
in  their  places. 

Look  well  at  this  man,  as  he  stands  engaged  in  his  occupation.  Did  you 
ever  see  a  bolder  brow — a  deeper,  darker,  or  more  intensely  brilliant  eye — 


i5fi  BEiNEDlCT   ARNOLD. 

a  more  resolute  lip  or  more  determined  chin  ?  Mark  the  massy  outline  of 
that  face  from  the  ear  to  the  chin  ;  a  world  of  iron  will  is  written  in  that 
firm  outline. 

The  hair,  unclogged  with  the  powder  in  fashion  at  this  time,  falls  back 
from  his  forehead  in  harsh  masses  ;  its  dark  hue  imparting  a  strong  relief  to 
the  bold  and  warrior-like  face. 

While  this  man  stands  at  his  counter,  busy  with  pestle  and  mortar — hark  ! 
There  is  a  murmur  along  the  streets  of  New  Haven  ;  a  crowd  darkens 
under  those  aged  elms  ;  the  murmur  deepens  ;  the  Druggist  became  con 
scious  of  four  deep-muttered  words  : 

"  Battle— Lexington — British — Beaten  /" 

With  one  bound  the  Druggist  leaps  over  the  counter,  rushes  into  the 
street  and  pushes  his  way  through  the  crowd.  Listen  to  that  tumultuous 
murmur !  A  battle  has  been  fought  at  Lexington,  between  the  British  and 
the  Americans  ;  or  in  other  words,  the  handsomely  attired  minions  of  King 
George,  have  been  soundly  beaten  by  the  plain  farmers  of  New  England. 
That  murmur  deepens  through  the  crowd,  and  in  a  moment  the  Druggist 
is  in  the  centre  of  the  scene.  Two  hundred  men  group  round  him,  begging 
to  be  led  against  the  British. 

But  there  is  a  difficulty  ;  the  Common  Council,  using  a  privilege  granted 
to  all  corporate  bodies  from  immemorial  time,  to  make  laughing-stocks  of 
themselves,  by  a  display  of  petty  authority,  have  locked  up  all  the  arms. 

"Arnold,"  cried  a  patriotic  citizen,  uncouth  in  attire  and  speech:  "  We 
are  willing  to  fight  the  Britishers,  but  the  city  council  won't  let  us  have 
any  guns  !" 

"  Won't  they  ?"  said  the  Druggist,  with  that  sardonic  sneer,  which  always 
made  his  enemies  afraid  :  "  Then  our  remedy  is  plain.  Come ;  let  us 
take  them  !" 

Five  minutes  had  not  passed,  before  the  city  Council,  knowing  this 
Druggist  to  be  a  man  of  few  words  and  quick  deeds,  yielded  up  the  guns 
That  hour  the  Druggist  became  a  soldier. 

Let  us  now  pass  over  a  month  or  more. 

It  is  a  night  in  May. 

Look  yonder,  through  the  night  ?  Do  you  see  that  tremendous  rock,  as 
it  towers  up  ruggedly  sublime,  into  the  deep  blue  sky  ?  Yes,  over  the  wide 
range  of  woods,  over  the  silent  fastnesses  of  the  wilderness,  over  the  calm 
waters  of  Lake  George  and  the  waves  of  Champlain,  that  rock  towers  and 
swells  on  the  night,  like  an  awful  monument,  erected  by  the  lost  Angels, 
when  they  fell  from  Heaven. 

And  there,  far  away  in  the  sky,  the  moon  dwindled  away  to  a  slender 
thread,  sheds  over  the  blue  vault  and  the  deep  woods  and  the  tremendous 
rock,  a  light,  at  once  sad,  solemn,  sepulchral. 

Do  you  see  the  picture  ?  Does  it  not  stamp  itself  upon  your  soul,  an 
image  of  terrible  beauty  ?  Do  you  not  feel  the  awful  silence  that  broods  there  ' 


THE   MARCH   THROUGH   THE    WILDERNESS.  157 

On  the  summit  of  th^it  rock  the  British  garrison  are  sleeping,  aye,  slum 
bering  peacefully,  under  the  comfortable  influence  of  beef  and  ale,  in  the 
impregnable  fortress  of  Ticonderoga.  From  the  topmost  crag,  the  broad 
Banner  of  the  Red  Cross  swings  lazily  against  the  sky. 

At  this  moment,  there  is  a  murmur  far  down  m  the  dark  ravine.  Let  u* 
look  there.  A  multitude  of  shadows  come  stealing  into  the  dim  light  of  the 
moon  ;  they  climb  that  impregnable  rock  ;  they  darken  round  that  fortress 
gate.  All  is  still  as  death. 

Two  figures  stand  in  the  shadows  of  the  fortress  gate;  in  that  stern  de 
termined  visage,  you  see  the  first  of  the  green  mountain  boys,  stout  ETHAN 
ALLEN  ;  in  that  muscular  figure,  with  the  marked  face  and  deep-set  eye, 
you  recognize  the  druggist  of  New  Haven,  BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 

A  fierce  shout,  a  cry,  a  crash  goes  up  to  Heaven  !  The  British  Colonel 
rushing  from  his  bed,  asks  what  Power  is  this,  which  demands  the  surren 
der  of  Ticonderoga  ? 

For  all  his  spangled  coat  and  waving  plumes,  this  gentleman  was 

behind  the  age.  He  had  not  heard,  that  a  jNew  Nation  had  lately  been 
born  on  the  sod  of  Lexington.  Nor  did  lie  dream  of  the  Eight  Years  Bap 
tism  of  blood  arid  tears,  which  was  to  prepare  this  nation  for  its  full  com 
munion  with  the  Church  of  Nations,  on  the  plains  of  Yorktown. "  In 

what  name  do  you  demand  the  surrender  of  this  fortress  ?" 

In  the  name  of  a  King  ?  Or  perchance  in  the  name  of  Benedict  Arnold 
and  stout  Ethan  Allen  ?  No  !  Hark  how  that  stern  response  breaks  through 
the  silence  of  night. 

44  In  the  name  of  the  Lord  Jehovah  and  the  Continental  Congress  !" 

And  floating  into  the  blue  sky,  the  PINE  TREE  banner  waved  from  the 
summit  of  Ticonderoga. 

You  will  remember,  that  the  emblem  of  the  New-born  nation,  at 

that  lime,  was  a  Pine  Tree.  The  Lord  had  not  yet  given  his  stars,  to  flash 
from  the  Banner  of  Freedom  ;  an  emblem  of  the  rights  of  man  all  over  the 
world. — 

That  was  the  first  deed  of  Benedict  Arnold  ;  the  initial  letter  to  a  long 
alphabet  of  glorious  deeds,  which  was  to  end  in  the  blackness  of  Treason. 

III.— THE    MARCH    THROUGH    THE    WILDERNESS 

THERE  was  a  day,  my  friends,  when  some  Italian  peasants,  toiling  in  the 
vineyards  of  their  cloudless  clime,  beneath  the  shadow  of  those  awful  Alps, 
that  rise  as  if  to  the  very  Heavens,  ran  in  terror  to  the  village  Priest,  beg 
ging  him  to  pray  for  them,  for  the  end  of  the  world  was  coming. 

The  Priest  calmly  inquired  the  cause  of  all  the  clamor.  Soon  the  mys 
tery  was  explained.  Looking  up  into  the  white  ravines  of  the  Alps,  the 
peasants  had  seen  an  army  coming  down — emerging  from  that  awful  wilder 
ness  of  snow  and  ice,  where  the  avalanche  alone  had  spoken,  for  ages — 


158  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

with  cannons,  and  plumes,  and  banners,  and  a  little  man  .n  a  grey  riding- 
coat  in  their  midst. 

That  little  man  was  named  Napoleon  Bonaparte — a  YOUNG  MAN,  who 
one  day  was  starving  in  Paris  for  the  want  of  a  dinner,  and  the  next  held 
France  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

That  was  a  great  deed,  the  crossing  of  the  Alps,  by  the  young  man,  Na 
poleon,  but  I  will  now  tell  you  a  bolder  deed,  done  by  the  Patriot,  BENEDICT 
ARNOLD. 

In  April,  1775,  that  man  Arnold  stood  behind  a  counter,  mixing  medi 
cines,  pasting  labels  en  phials,  and  putting  poisons  in  their  places. 

In  May,  the  Druggist  Arnold,  stood  beside  stout  Ethan  Allen,  in  the  gate 
of  conquered  Ticonderoga. 

In  September,  the  soldier  Arnold  was  on  his  way  to  Quebec,  through  an 
untrodden  desert  of  three  hundred  miles. 

One  night,  the  young  Commander  Washington  sat  in  his  tent  at  Cam 
bridge,  (near  Boston,)  with  his  eye  fixed  on  the  map  of  Canada,  and  his 
finger  laid  on  that  spot  marked  QUEBEC. 

While  thus  employed  a  soldier  stood  by  his  side. 

"  Give  me  two  thousand  men,  General,"  said  he,  "  and  I  will  take 
Quebec." 

Washington  answered  this  with  a  look  of  incredulous  surprise. 

"  Three  hundred  miles  of  untrodden  wilderness  are  to  be  traversed,  ere 
you  can  obtain  even  a  glimpse  of  the  rock  of  Quebec." 

"  Yet  I  will  go  !"  was  the  firm  response  of  the  soldier. 

"  But  there  are  rocks,  and  ravines,  and  dense  forests,  and  unknown  lakes, 
and  impassable  cataracts  in  the  way,"  answered  Washington  ;  "  and  then 
the  cold  of  winter  will  come  on  ;  your  provisions  will  fail ;  your  men  will 
be  starved  or  frozen  to  death." 

Still  that  soldier  was  firm. 

"  Give  me  two  thousand  men,  and  I  will  go  !" 

Do  you  mark  the  bold  brow — the  clear,  dark  eye — the  determined  lip  of 
that  soldier?  Do  you  behold  the  face  of  Washington — utterly  unlike  your 
vulgar  pictures  of  the  man — each  outline  moulded  by  a  high  resolve,  the 
eye  gleaming  chivalry,  the  brow  radiant  with  the  light  of  genius  ? 

That  soldier  was  Benedict  Arnold. 

Washington  took  him  by  the  hand,  and  bade  him  go  ! 

"  Yes,  go  through  the  wilderness.  Attack  and  possess  Quebec.  Then 
the  annexation  of  Canada  will  be  certain  ;  the  American  name  will  embrace 
a  Continent.  Go  !  and  God  speed  you  on  your  journey." 

Did  that  great  truth  ever  strike  you  ?  Washington  did  not  fight  for  a 
Half-America,  or  a  Piece-America,  but  for  the  Continent,  the  whole  CONTI 
NENT.  His  army  was  not  called  the  A.merican,  but  the  CONTINENTAL 
army.  The  Congress  was  not  entitled  American,  but  CONTINENTAL.  The 


THE   MARCH    THROUGH    THE    WILDERNESS.  159 

very  currency  was  CONTINENTAL.  In  one  word,  Washington  and  his  com 
patriots  were  impressed  with  the  belief  that  God  had  given  the  whole  Con 
tinent  te  the  Free. — Therefore  he  gazed  upon  the  map  of  Canada.  There 
fore,  pressing  Arnold's  hand,  he  bade  him  God  speed  ! 

And  he  did  go.  Yes,  look  yonder  on  the  broad  ocean.  Behold  that  lit 
tle  fleet  of  eleven  vessels  stealing  along  the  coast,  toward  the  mouth  of  the 
Kennebec.  That  fleet,  sailing  on  the  17th  of  September,  1775,  contains 
eleven  hundred  brave  men,  and  their  leader,  Benedict  Arnold. 

They  reach  the  mouth  of  the  Kennebec — they  glide  along  its  cliff-em 
bosomed  shores.  These  brave  men  are  about  to  traverse  an  untrodden 
wilderness  of  300  miles,  and  then  attack  the  Gibralter  of  America.  If  that 
was  not  a  bold  idea,  then  the  crossing  of  the  Alps  was  a  mere  holiday 
pastime. 

Let  us  leave  this  little  army  to  build  their  canoes  near  the  moutli  of  the 
Kennebec  ;  let  us  hurry  into  the  thick  wilderness. 

Even  in  these  days  of  steam  and  rail-road  cars,  the  Kennebec  is  beautiful. 
Some  of  you  have  wandered  there  by  its  deep  waters,  and  seen  the  smiles 
of  woman  mirrowed  in  its  wave.  Some  of  you  have  gazed  upon  those  high 
cliffs,  those  snadowy  glens,  now  peopled  with  the  hum  of  busy  life. 

But  in  the  day  when  Arnold  dared  its  solitudes,  there  was  a  grandeur 
stamped  on  these  rocks  and  cliffs — a  grandeur  fresh  from  the  hands  of  God. 

Yet,  even  amidst  its  awful  wilds,  there  was  a  scene  of  strange  loveliness, 
a  picture  which  I  would  stamp  upon  your  souls. 

Stretching  away  from  the  dark  waters  of  that  river — where  another 
stream  mingles  with  its  flood — a  wide  plain,  bounded  by  dense  forests, 
breaks  on  your  eye. 

As  the  glimmering  day  is  seen  over  the  eastern  hills,  there,  in  the  centre 
of  the  plain,  stands  a  solitary  figure,  a  lone  Indian,  the  last  of  a  line  of  kings  ; 
yes,  with  his  arms  folded,  his  war-blanket  gathered  about  his  form,  the 
hatchet  and  knife  lying  idly  at  his  feet — there  stands  the  last  of  a  long  line 
of  forest  kings,  gazing  at  the  ruins  of  his  race. 

The  ruins  of  his  race  ?  Yes — look  there  !  In  the  centre  of  that  plain, 
a  small  fabric  arises  under  the  shade  of  centuried  oaks — a  small  fabric,  with 
battered  walls  and  rude  windows,  stands  there  like  a  tomb  in  the  desert,  so 
lonely,  even  amid  this  desolation. 

Let  us  enter  this  rude  place.  What  a  sight  is  there  !  As  the  first  gleam 
of  day  breaks  over  the  eastern  hills,  it  trembles  through  those  rude  windows, 
it  trembles  upon  that  shattered  altar,  that  fallen  cross. 

Altar  and  cross  ?  What  do  they  here  in  the  wilderness  ?  And  why 
does  that  lone  Indian — that  last  of  the  kings — who  could  be  burned  without 
a  murmur — why  does  he  mutter  wildly  to  himself  as  he  gazes  upon  this 
mm  ? 

Listen.  Here,  many  years  ago,  dwelt  a  powerful  Indian  tribe,  and  here 
from  afar  over  the  waters,  came  a  peaceful  man,  clad  in  a  long  coarse  rob«, 


JtiO  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

with  a  rude  cross  hanging  on  his  breast.  That  peaceful  man  built  the 
church,  reared  the  altar,  planted  the  cross.  Here,  in  the  calmness  of  the 
summer  evening,  you  might  see  the  red  warrior  with  blunted  war-knife, 
come  to  worship  ;  the  little  Indian  child  kneeling  there,  clasping  its  tiny- 
hands,  as  it  learned,  in  its  rude  dialect,  to  lisp  the  name  of  Jesus  ;  and  here 
the  dark  brown  Indian  maiden,  with  her  raven  hair  falling  over  her  bending 
form,  listened  with  dilating  eyes,  to  that  story  of  the  virgin-mother. 

Here,  that  man  with  the  cross  on  his  breast,  lived  and  taught  for  twenty- 
five  years.  Forsaking  the  delights  of  Parisian  civilization,  the  altars  and 
monuments  of  the  eternal  city,  he  came  here  to  teach  the  rude  Indian  that 
he  had  a  soul,  that  God  cared  for  him,  that  a  great  Being,  in  a  far  distant 
land,  wept,  prayed,  and  died  for  him,  the  dusky  savage  of  the  woods. 
When  he  first  came  here,  his  hair  was  dark  as  night :  here  he  lived  until 
it  matched  the  winter's  snow. 

One  Sabbath  morn,  just  as  the  day  broke  over  these  hills,  while  man  and 
woman  and  child  knelt  before  the  altar,  while  the  aged  Priest  stood  yonder, 
lifting  the  sacramental  cup  above  his  head,  yes — my  blood  chill,  as  I  write 
it — on  a  Sabbath  morning,  as  the  worship  of  Almighty  God  was  celebrated 
in  the  church,  all  at  once  a  horrid  cry  broke  on  the  silent  air  !  A  cry,  a 
yell,  a  wild  hurrah  ! 

The  cry  of  women,  as  they  knelt  for  mercy,  and  in  answer  to  their  prayer 
the  clubbed  rifle  came  crushing  down — the  yell  of  warriors  shot  like  dogs 
upon  the  chapel  floor — the  wild  hurrah  of  the  murderers,  who  fired  through 
these  windows  upon  the  worshippers  of  Jehovah  ! 

There  was  a  flame  rising  into  that  Sabbath  sky — there  were  the  horrid 
shrieks  of  massacre  ringing  on  the  air,  as  men  and  women  plunged  into  the 
flood — while  from  yonder  walls  of  rocks,  the  murderers  picked  them  one  by- 
one  !  The  lonely  plain  ran  with  blood,  down  to  the  Kenebec,  and  the 
dying  who  struggled  in  its  waves,  left  but  a  bloody  track  on  the  waters,  to 
tell  of  their  last  fatal  plunge  ! 

And  yonder,  yes,  in  the  church  of  God,  kneeling  beside  that  altar,  clasp- 
ng  that  cross  with  his  trembling  hands,  there  crouched  the  old  man  as  the 
death-blow  sank  into  his  brain  ! 

His  white  hair  was  dyed  blood-red,  even  as  the  name  of  the  Saviour 
quivered  from  his  lips. 

Even,  came — where  a  Nation  had  been,  was  now  only  a  harvest  of  deaJ 
bodies  :  where  Religion  had  been,  was  now  only  an  old  man,  murdered 
beside  his  altar. 

Yet  still,  in  death,  his  right  hand  uplifted,  clung  to  the  fallen  cross. 

And  who  were  the  murderers  ? 

I  will  not  say  that  they  were  Christians,  but  they  were  white  men,  and 
the  children  of  white  parents.  They  had  been  reared  in  the  knowledge  of 
a  Saviour ;  they  had  been  taught  the  existence  of  a  God.  They  were  sol 
diers,  too,  right  brave  men.  withal,  for  they  came  with  knife  and  rifle,  skulk 


THE    MARC  PI  THROUGH   THE    WILDERNESS.  16] 

ino  like  solves  along  these  rocks,  to  murder  a  congregation  in  the  act  of 
worshipping  their  Maker. 

Do  you  ask  me  for  my  opinion  of  such  men  ?  I  cannot  tell  you.  But 
were  this  tongue  mute,  this  hand  palsied,  I  would  only  ask  the  power  of 
speech  to  say  one  word — the  power  of  pen,  to  write  that  word  in  letters 
of  fire — and  the  word  would  be — SCORN  ! — SCORN  UPON  THE  MURDERERS 
OF  FATHER  RALLE  ! 

And  now,  as  the  light  of  morning  broke  over  the  desolate  plain,  there 
stood  the  lone  Indian,  gazing  upon  the  ruins  of  his  race.  Natanis,  the  last 
of  the  Norridgewocks,  among  the  graves  of  his  people  ! 

But  now  he  gazes  far  down  the  dark  river — ha!  what  strange  vision 
comes  here  ? 

Yonder,  gliding  from  the  shelter  of  the  deep  woods,  comes  a  fleet  of 
canoes,  carrying  strange  warriors  over  the  waters.  Strange  warriors,  clad 
in  the  bine  hunting-frock,  faced  with  fur ;  strange  warriors,  with  powder 
horn,  knife  and  rifle.  Far  ahead  of  the  main  body  of  the  fleet,  a  solitai 
canoe  skims  over  the  waters.  That  canoe  contains  the  oarsmen,  and  another 
form,  wrapped  in  a  rough  cloak,  with  his  head  drooped  on  the  breast,  while 
the  eye  flashes  with  deep  thoughts — the  form  of  the  Napoleon  of  the  wil 
derness,  BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 

Look  !  He  rises  in  the  canoe — he  stands  erect — he  flings  the  cloak  from 
his  form — he  lifts  the  rough  fur  cap  from  his  brow.  Do  you  mark  each 
outline  of  that  warrior-form  ?  Do  you  note  the  bold  thought  now  struggling 
into  birth  over  that  prominent  forehead,  along  that  compressed  lip,  in  the 
gleam  of  those  dark  grey  eyes,  sunken  deep  beneath  the  brow  ? 

He  stands  there,  erect  in  the  canoe,  with  outspread  arms,  as  though  he 
would  say — 

"  Wilderness,  I  claim  ye  as  my  own  !  Rocks,  ye  cannot  daunt  me  ; 
cataracts,  ye  cannot  appal  !  Starvation,  death,  and  cold — I  will  conquer 
ye  all  !" 

Look  !  As  he  stands  there,  erect  in  the  canoe,  the  Indian,  Natanis,  be 
holds  him,  springs  into  the  river  and  soon  stands  by  his  side. 

"  The  Dark-Eagle  comes  to  claim  the  wilderness,"  he  speaks  in  the  wild 
Indian  tongue,  which  Arnold  knows  so  well.  "  The  wilderness  will  yield 
to  the  Dark-Eagle,  but  the  Rock  will  defy  him.  The  Dark-Eagle  will  soar 
aloft  to  the  sun.  Nations  will  behold  him,  and  shout  his  praises.  Yet 
when  he  soars  highest,  his  fall  is  most  certain.  When  his  wing  brushes 
the  sky,  then  the  arrow  will  pierce  his  heart !" 

It  was  a  Prophecy.  In  joy  or  sorrow,  in  battle  or  council,  in  honor  or 
treason,  Arnold  never  forgot  the  words  of  Natanis. 

He  joins  that  little  fleet ;  he  advances  with  Arnold  into  the  Wilderness. 
Let  us  follow  him  there  ! 

Now  dashing  down  boiling  rapids,  now  carrying  their  canoes  through 
miles  of  forest,  over  hills  of  rock,  now  wading  for  long  leagues,  through 


162  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

water  that  freezes  to  their  limbs  as  they  go,  the  little  army  of  Arnold 
advance. 

On,  brave  Arnold,  on  !  For  you  the  awful  mountain  has  no  terrors,  the 
cold  that  stops  the  blood  in  its  flowing,  no  fear.  Not  even  the  dark  night 
when  the  straggler  falls  dying  by  the  way,  and  unknown  ravines  yawn  far 
below  your  path,  not  even  the  darker  day  when  the  little  store  of  parched 
corn  fails,  and  your  famished  soldiers  feed  on  the  flesh  of  dogs — when  even 
the  snake  is  a  dainty  meal — not  even  terrors  like  these  can  scare  your  iron 
soul !  On,  brave  Arnold,  on  ! 

Look,  at  last,  after  dangers  too  horrible  to  tell,  the  little  fleet  is  floating 
down  that  stream,  whose  awful  solitude  gained  it  this  name,  THE  RIVER  OF 
THE  DEAD.  Far  over  the  waters,  look  !  A  tremendous  mountain  rises  there 
from  the  waters  above  all  other  mountains  into  the  blue  sky  ;  white,  lonely 
and  magnificent,  an  alabaster  altar,  to  which  the  Angels  may  come  to  wor 
ship. 

Under  the  shadow  of  this  mountain  the  little  army  of  Arnold  encamped 
for  three  days.  A  single,  bold  soldier,  ascends  the  colossal  steep ;  stands 
there,  far  above,  amid  the  snow  and  sunbeams,  and  at  last  comes  rushing 
down  with  a  shriek  of  joy. 

"  Arnold  !"  he  cries,  "  I  have  seen  the  rock  and  spires  of  Quebec !" 

What  a  burst  of  joy  rises  from  that  little  host !  Quebec  !  the  object  of 
all  their  hopes,  for  which  they  starve,  and  toil,  and  freeze  !  Hark  !  to  that 
deep-mouthed  hurrah  ! 

Benedict  Arnold  then  takes  from  his  breast, — where  wrapped  in  close 
folds  he  had  carried  it,  through  all  his  dreary  march — a  blue  banner  gleam 
ing  with  thirteen  stars.  He  hoists  it  in  the  air.  For  the  first  time  the 
Banner  of  the  Rights  of  Man,  to  which  God  has  given  his  stars,  floats  over 
the  waters  of  the  Wilderness. 

On,  brave  Arnold,  on  !  On  over  the  deep  rapids  and  the  mountain  rock  ; 
on  again  in  hunger  and  cold,  until  desertion  and  disease  have  thinned  your 
band  of  eleven  hundred  down  to  nine  hundred  men  of  iron  ;  on,  brave  hero 
— Napoleon  on  the  Alps,  Cortez  in  Mexico,  Pizarro  in  Peru,  never  did  a 
bolder  deed  than  yours  ! 

Let  us  for  a  moment  pause  to  look  upon  a  picture  of  beauty,  even  in  this 
terrible  march. 

Do  you  see  that  dark  lake,  spreading  away  there  under  the  shadow  of 
tall  pines  ?  Look  up — a  faint  glimpse  of  starlight  is  seen  there  through  the 
intervals  of  the  sombre  boughs.  The  stars  look  down  upon  the  deeps  ; 
eolitude  is  there  in  all  its  stillness,  so  like  the  grave. 

Suddenly  a  red  light  flares  over  the  waters.  The  gleam  of  fires  redden 
the  boughs  of  these  pines,  flashes  around  the  trunks  of  these  stout  oaks.  The 
men  of  Arnold  are  here,  encamped  around  yonder  deserted  Indian  wigwam, 
whose  rude  timbers  you  may  behold  among  the  trees,  near  the  brink  of  the 
waters. 


THE   ATTACK   ON    QUEBEC.  ]  63 

For  an  hour  these  iron  men  are  merry  !  Yes,  encamped  by  the  wave 
of  Lake  CHAUDIERE.  They  roast  the  ox  amid  the  huge  logs  ;  they  draw  the 
rich  salmon  and  the  speckled  trout  from  these  waters.  Forgive  them  if  the 
drinking  horn  passes  from  lip  to  lip ;  forgive  them  if  the  laugh  and  song  go 
round  ! — Forgive  them — for  to-morrow  they  must  go  on  their  dread  march 
again ;  to-morrow  they  must  feed  on  the  bark  of  trees,  and  freeze  in  cold 
waters  again — forgive  them  for  this  hour  of  joy. 

Now  let  us  follow  them  again  ;  let  us  speak  to  brave  Arnold,  and  bid 
him  on  ! 

O,  these  forests  are  dark  and  dense,  these  rocks  are  too  terrible  for  us  to 
climb,  the  cold  chills  our  blood,  this  want  of  bread  maddens  our  brain — but 
still  brave  Arnold  points  toward  Quebec,  and  bids  them  on  ! 

Hark  !  That  cry,  so  deep,  prolonged,  maddening,  hark,  it  swells  up  into 
the  silence  of  night ;  it  stops  the  heart  in  its  beating.  On,  my  braves  !  It 
is  but  the  cry  of  a  comrade  who  has  missed  his  footing,  and  been  dashed 
to  pieces  against  the  rocks  below. 

It  is  day  again.  The  sun  streams  over  the  desolate  waste  of  pines  and 
snow.  It  is  day  ;  but  the  corn  is  gone — we  hunger,  Arnold  !  The  dog  is 
slain,  the  snake  killed  ;  they  feast,  these  iron  men.  Then,  with  canoes  on 
their  shoulders,  they  wade  the  stream,  they  climb  the  mountain,  they  crawl 
along  the  sides  of  dark  ravines.  Upon  the  waters  again  !  Behold  the 
stream  boiling  and  foaming  over  its  rocky  bed.  Listen  to  the  roaring  of  the 
torrent.  Now  guide  the  boat  with  care,  or  we  are  lost ;  swerve  not  a  hair's 
breadth,  or  we  are  dashed  to  pieces.  Suddenly  a  crash — a  shout — and  lo  ! 
Those  men  are  struggling  for  their  lives  amid  the  wrecks  of  their  canoes. 

But  still  that  voice  speaks  out:  "Do  not  fear  my  iron  men;  gather  the 
wrecks,  and  leap  into  your  comrades'  canoes.  Do  not  fear,  for  Quebec  is 
there!" 

At  last  two  long  months  of  cold,  starvation  and  death  are  past ;  Arnold 
stands  on  Point  Levy,  and  there,  over  the  waters,  sees  rising  into  light  the 
rock  and  spires  of  Quebec  ! 

Napoleon  gazing  on  the  plains  of  Italy,  Cortez  on  the  Halls  of  Montezu- 
ma,  never  felt  such  joy  as  throbbed  in  Arnold's  bosom  then  ! 

It  was  there,  there  in  the  light,  no  dream,  no  fancy  ;  but  a  thing  of  sub 
stance  and  form,  it  was  there  above  the  waters,  the  object  of  bright  hopes 
and  fears  ;  that  massive  rock,  that  glittering  town. 

At  last  he  beheld — QUEBEC  ! 

IV.— THE    ATTACK    OX    QUEBEC. 

IT  was  the  last  day  of  the  year  1775. 

Yonder,  on  the  awful  cliffs  of  Abraham,  in  the  darkness  of  the  daybreak, 
while  the  leaden  sky  grooms  above,  a  band  of  brave  men  are  gathered  ;  yes, 
vrhrle  the  British  are  banquetting  in  Quebec,  here,  on  this  tremendous  rock, 


164  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

in   silent   array,  stand    the    Heroes    of  the  Wilderness,  joined  with  their 
brothers,  the  Continentals  from  Montreal. 

That  little  army  of  one  thousand  have  determined  to  at'ack  the  Gibralter 
of  America,  with  its  rocks,  its  fortifications,  its  two  thousand  British  soldiers. 
Here,  on  the  very  rock,  where,  sixteen  years  ago,  Montcalm  and  Wolfe 
poured  forth  their  blood,  now  are  gathered  a  band  of  brave  men,  who  are 
seen  in  the  darkness  of  this  hour,  extending  like  dim  shadow-forms,  around 
two  figures,  standing  alone  in  the  centre  of  the  host. 

It  is  silent,  and  sad  as  death.  The  roaring  of  the  St.  Lawrence  alone  is 
heard.  Above  the  leaden  sky,  around  the  rock  extending  like  a  plain — 
yonder,  far  through  the  gloom,  a  misty  light  struggles  into  the  sky,  that 
light  gleams  from  the  firesides  of  Quebec. 

Who  are  these,  that  stand  side  by  side  in  the  centre  of  the  band  ? 

That  muscular  form,  with  a  hunting  shirt  thrown  over  his  breast,  that 
"orm  standing  there,  with  folded  arms  and  head  drooped  low,  while  the  eye 
glares  out  from  beneath  the  fanning  brow,  that  is  the  Patriot  Hero  of  the 
Wilderness,  Benedict  Arnold. 

By  his  side  stands  a  graceful  form,  with  strength  and  beauty  mingled  in 
its  outlines,  clad  in  the  uniform  of  a  General,  while  that  chivalrous  counte 
nance  with  its  eye  of  summer  blue,  turns  anxiously  from  face  to  face.  In 
that  form  you  behold  the  doomed  MONTGOMERY.  He  has  come  from  Mon 
treal,  he  has  joined  his  little  band  with  the  Iron  Men  of  Benedict  Arnold. 

Who  are  these  that  gather  round,  with  fur  caps  upon  each  brow,  mocca 
sins  upon  each  foot ;  who  are  these  wild  men,  that  now  await  the  signal- 
word  ? — You  may  know  them  by  their  leader,  who,  with  his  iron  form, 
stands  leaning  on  his  rifle — the  brave  DANIEL  MORGAN. 

The  daybreak  wears  on  ;  the  sky  grows  darker  ;    the  snow  begins  to  fall. 

Arnold  turns  to  his  brothers  in  arms.  They  clasp  each  other  by  the 
hand. — Their  lips  move  but  you  hear  no  sound. 

**  Arnold  !"  whispers  Montgomery,  "  I  will  lead  my  division  along  the  St. 
Lawrence,  under  the  rocks  of  Cape  Diamond.  I  will  meet  you  in  the  cen 
tre  of  Quebec — or  die  !" 

"  Montgomery,  I  will  attack  the  barrier  on  the  opposite  side.  There  is  my 
hand !  I  will  meet  you  yonder — yonder  in  the  centre  of  Quebec — or  perish !" 

It  is  an  oath :  the  word  is  given. — Look  there,  and  behold  the  two  divi 
sions,  separating  over  the  rocks  :  this,  with  Montgomery  towards  the  St. 
Lawrence,  that  with  Arnold  and  Morgan,  towards  the  St.  Charles. 

All  is  still.  The  rocks  grow  white  with  snow.  All  is  still  and  dark,  but 
grim  shadows  are  moving  on  every  side. 

Silence  along  the  lines.  Not  a  word  on  the  peril  of  your  lives  !  Do 
you  behold  this  narrow  pass,  leading  to  the  first  barr.er,  vender?  That 
barrier,  grim  with  cannon,  commands  every  inch  of  th .  o'-*'/.  On  one  side, 
the  St.  Charles  heaps  up  its  rocks  of  ice  ;  on  the  olhc  ar/  \  'A'rt  the  rocks 
of  granite 


THE  ATTACK    ON    QUEBEC.  165 

JJhience  aiong  the  lines  !  The  night  is  dark,  the  way  is  difficult,  but  Que 
bec  is  yonder  !  Soldier,  beware  of  those  piles  of  rock — a  single  misplaced 
C»otpu>-  may  arouse  the  sleeping  soldier  on  yonder  barrier.  If  he  awake, 
we  ar*  lo<n !  On,  brave  band,  on  with  stealthy  footstep,  and  rifle  to  each 
snoulder  ;  on,  men  of  the  wilderness,  in  your  shirts  of  blue  and  fur! 

At  the  head  of  the  column,  with  his  drawn  sword  gleaming  through  the 
mpht  Benedict  Arnold  silently  advances. 

Then  a  single  cannon,  mounted  on  a  sled,  and  dragged  forward,  by  stou 
arms. 

Last  of  all,  Daniel  Morgan  with  the  riflemen  of  the  Wilderness. 

In  this  order  along  the  narrow  pass,  with  ice  on  one  side  and  rocks  on 
the  other,  the  hero-band  advance.  The  pass  grows  narrower — the  battery 
nearer.  Arnold  can  now  count  the  cannon — nay,  the  soldiers  who  are 
watching  there.  Terrible  suspense  !  Every  breath  is  hushed — stout  hearts 
now  swell  within  the  manly  chest. 

Lips  compressed,  eyes  glaring,  rifles  clenched — the  Iron  Men  move 
softly  on. 

Arnold  silently  turns  to  his  men. 

And  yonder  through  the  gloom,  over  the  suburb  of  that  city,  over  ihe 
rocks  of  that  city's  first  barrier — there  frowned  the  battery  grim  with 
cannon. 

There  wait  the  sentinel  and  his  brother  soldiers.  They  hear  no  sound  ; 
the  falling  snow  echoes  no  footstep,  and  yet  there  are  dim  shadows  moving 
along  the  rocks,  moving  on  without  a  sound. 

Look  !  Those  shadows  move  up  the  rocks,  to  the  very  muzzles  of  the 
cannon.  Now  the  sentinel  starts  up  from  his  reclining  posture  ;  he  hears 
that  stealthy  tread.  He  springs  to  his  cannon — look  !  how  that  flash  Blares 
out  upon  the  night. 

Is  this  magic  ?  There  disclosed  by  that  cannon  flash,  long  lines  of  bold 
riflemen  start  into  view,  and  there — 

Standing  in  front  of  the  cannon,  his  tall  form  rising  in  the. red  glare,  with 
a  sword  in  one  hand,  the  Banner  of  the  Stars  in  the  other — there,  with  that 
wild  look  which  he  ever  wore  in  battle,  gleaming  from  his  eye — there  stands 
the  patriot,  Benedict  Arnold  ! 

On  either  side  there  is  a  mangled  corse — but  he  stands  firm.  Before 
him  yawns  the  cannon,  but  he  springs  upon  those  cannon — he  turns  to  his 
men — he  bids  them  on  ! 

"  To-night  we  will  feast  in  Quebec  !" 

And  the  hail  of  the  rifle  balls  lays  the  British  dead  upon  their  own  can 
non. — Now  the  crisis  of  the  conflict  comes. 

Now  behold  this  horrid  scene  of  blood  and  death. 

While  the  snow  falls  over  the  faces  of  the  dead,  while  the  blood  of  the 
dying  turns  that  snow  to  scarlet,  gather  round  your  leader,  load  and  fire. 


166  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

dash   these  British  hirelings   upon  the   barrier's   rocks — ye  heroes  of 
Wilderness  ! 

Now  Arnold  is  in  his  glory  ! 

Now  he  knows  nothing,  sees    nothing  but  that   grim   barrier 
yonder  !     Those  fires  flashing  from  the  houses — that  rattling  hail  of 
pattering  on  the  snow~he  sees,  he  feels  them  not ! 

His  eye  is  fixed  upon  the  second  barrier.  He  glances  around  that  mass 
3f  rifles,  now  glittering  in  the  red  light— he  floats  the  Banner  of  the  Stars  on 
high — Hark  to  his  shout ! 

"  Never  fear,  my  men  of  the  Wilderness  !  We  have  not  come  three 
hundred  miles  to  fail  now  !  Have  I  not  sworn  to  meet  Montgomery  there, 
to  meet  him  in  the  centre  of  the  town,  or  die  ?" 

And  then  on,  across  the  rocks  and  cannon  of  the  barrier !  Hark — that 
crash,  that  yell !  The  British  soldiers  are  driven  back  over  the  dead  bodies 
of  comrades — the  first  barrier  is  won  ! 

Arnold  stands  victorious  upon  that  barrier — stands  there,  with  blood  upon 
his  face,  his  uniform — dripping  from  his  sword — stands  there  with  the  Ban 
ner  of  the  Stars  in  his  hand  ! 

Oh  !  sainted  mother  of  Jlrnold,  who  on  that  calm  summer  night,  near 
forty  years  ago,  laid  your  child  upon  the  sacramental  altar,  now  look 
from  Heaven,  and — if  saints  pray  for  the  children  of  earth — then  pray 
that  your  son  may  die  here  upon  the  bloody  barrier  of  Quebec  !  For  then 
his  name  will  be  enshrined  with  fVarrens  and  Washingtons  of  all  time  ! 

Even  as  Arnold  stood  there,  brandishing  that  starry  banner,  a  soldier 
rushed  up  to  his  side,  and  with  horror  quivering  on  his  lip,  told  that  the  gal 
lant  Montgomery  had  fallen. 

Fallen  at  the  head  of  his  men,  covered  with  wounds ;  the  noble  heart, 
that  beat  so  high  an  hour  ago,  was  now  cold  as  the  winter  snow,  on  which 
his  form  was  laid. 

Leaving  Arnold  for  a  moment,  on  the  first  barrier  of  Quebec,  let  us  trace 
the  footsteps  ojhis  brother-hero. 

Do  you  behold  that  massive  rock,  which  arises  from  the  dark  river  into 
the  darker  sky  ?  Along  that  rock  of  Cape  diamond,  while  the  St.  Lawrence 
dashes  the  ice  in  huge  masses  against  its  base,  along  that  rock,  over  a  path 
that  leads  beneath  a  shelf  of  granite,  with  but  room  for  the  foot  of  a  single 
man,  Richard  Montgomery  leads  his  band. 

Stealthily,  silently,  my  comrades  ! — Not  a  word — let  us  climb  this  nar 
row  path.  Take  care ;  a  misplaced  footstep,  and  you  will  be  hurled  down 
upon  the  ice  of  the  dark  river.  Up,  my  men,  and  on !  Yonder  it  is  at 
last,  the  block-house,  and  beyond  it,  at  the  distance  of  two  hundred  paces, 
the  battery,  dark  with  cannon  ! 

With  words  like  these,  Montgomery  led  on  his  men.  The  terrible  path 
pras  ascended.  He  stood  before  the  block-house.  Now,  comrades ' 


THE   ATTACK    ON    QUEBEC.  JQ7 

How  that  rifle-blaze  flashed  far  over  the  rocks  down  to  the  St.  Lawrence  J 
An  axe  !  an  axe  !  by  all  that  is  brave  !  He  seizes  the  axe,  the  brave 
Montgomery  ;  with  his  own  arm  he  hews  the  palisades. — The  way  is  clear 
for  his  men.  A  charge  with  blazing  rifles,  a  shout,  the  block-house  is  won  ! 

Talk  of  your  British  bayonets — ha,  ha  !  Where  did  they  ever  stand  the 
blaze  of  American  rifles  ?  Where  ?  Oh,  perfumed  gentlemen,  who  in 
gaudy  uniforms,  strut  Chesnut  street — talk  to  me  of  your  charge  of  bayonets, 
and  your  rules  of  discipline,  and  your  system  of  tactics,  and  I  will  reply  by 
a  single  word — one  American  rifleman,  in  his  rude  hunting  shirt,  was  worth 
a  thousand  such  as  you.  Who  mocked  the  charge  of  bayonets  on  Bunkei 
Hill?  Who  captured  Burgoyne  ?  Who — at  Brandy  wine — kept  back  all 
the  panoply  of  British  arms  from  morning  till  night  ? — The  Riflemen. 

One  shout  the  block-house  is  won. — Now  on  toward  the  battery — load 
and  advance  !  Montgomery  still  in  the  front.  With  a  yell,  the  British  be 
hold  them  approach  ;  they  flee  from  their  cannon. — Montgomery  mounts 
the  walls  of  rocks  and  iron  ;  his  sword  gleams  on  high,  like  a  beacon  for  his 
men.  At  this  moment,  hush  your  breath  and  look  ! — While  Montgomery 
clings  to  the  rocks  of  the  battery,  a  single  British  soldier  turns  from  his 
flight,  and  fires  one  of  those  grim  cannon,  and  then  is  gone  again. 

A  blaze  upon  the  right,  a  smoke,  a  chorus  of  groans  ! 

Montgomery  lays  mangled  upon  the  rock,  while  around  him  are  scat 
tered  four  other  corses.  Their  blood  mingles  in  one  stream. 

A  rude  rifleman  advances,  bends  down,  and  looks  upon  that  form,  quiv 
ering  for  an  instant  only,  and  then  cold — upon  that  face,  torn  and  mangled, 
as  with  the  print  of  a  horse's  hoof,  that  face,  but  a  moment  before  glowing 
with  a  hero's  soul.  He  looks  for  a  moment  and  then,  with  panic  in  his 
.face,  turns  to  his  comrades. 

"  Montgomery  is  dead  !"  he  shrieks  ;  and  with  one  accord  tney  retreat 
— they  fly  from  that  fatal  rock. 

But  one  form  lingers.  It  is  that  boyish  form,  graceful  almost  to  womanly 
beauty,  with  the  brow  of  a  genius,  the  eye  of  an  eagle.  That  boy  ran  away 
from  college,  bore  Washington's  commands  300  miles,  and  now — covered 
with  the  blood  of  the  fight — stands  beside  the  mangled  body  of  Montgomery, 
his  dark  eye  wet  with  tears.  In  that  form  behold  the  man  who  was  almost 
President  of  the  United  States,  and  Emperor  of  Mexico — the  enigma  of 
our  history,  AARON  BURR. 

They  are  gone.  Montgomery  is  left  alone,  with  no  friend  to  compose 
iimbs  or  close  those  glaring  eyes.  And  at  this  moment,  while  the  snow 
falls  over  his  face,  while  the  warm  blood  of  his  heart  pours  out  upon  the 
.ock,  yonder  in  his  far-off  home,  his  young  wife  kneels  by  her  bed,  and 
prays  God  to  hasten  his  return  ! 
*  He  dind  in  the  flush  of  heroism,  in  the  prime  of  early  manhocd.  leaving 


jt$8  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

his  country  the  rich  legacy  of  his  fame,  leaving  his  blood  upon  the  rock  of 
Quebec. 

The  day  is  coming  when  an  army  of  Free  Canadians  will  encamp  on 
that  very  rock,  their  rifles  pointed  at  the  British  battery,  their  Republicai 
flag  waving  in  the  forlorn  hope  against  the  British  banner  !  Then  perhaps 
some  true  American  heart  will  wash  out  the  blood  of  Montgomery  from  th« 
rock  of  Quebec. 

Arnold  stood  upon  the  first  barrier,  while  his  heart  throbbed  at  the  story 
of  Montgomery's  fate. 

Then  that  expression  of  desperation,  which  few  men  could  look  upon 
without  fear,  came  over  Arnold's  face.  Now  look  at  him,  as  with  his  form 
swelling  with  rage  he  rushes  on  !  He  springs  from  that  barrier,  he  shouts 
to  the  iron  men,  he  rings  the  name  of  Morgan  on  the  air. 

He  points  to  the  narrow  street,  over  which  the  second  barrier  is  thrown. 

"  Montgomery  is  there,"  he  shouts,  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  "  there  wailing 
"or  us  !" 

Hurrah !  How  the  iron  men  leap  at  the  word  !  There  is  the  quick 
clang  of  ramrods  ;  each  rifle  is  loaded.  They  rush  on  ! 

At  their  head,  his  whole  form  convulsed,  his  lips  writhing,  his  chest 
heaving  unconscious  of  danger,  as  though  the  ghost  of  Montgomery  was 
there  before  him,  Benedict  Arnold  rushes  on  ! 

Even  as  he  rushes,  he  falls.  Even  as  you  look  upon  him,  in  his  battle 
rage  with  his  right  leg  shattered,  he  falls. 

But  does  he  give  up  the  contest  ? 

By  the  ghost  of  Montgomery — No  ! 

No  !  He  lifts  his  face  from  the  snow  now  crimsoned  with  his  blood,  he 
follows  with  his  startling  eyes,  the  path  of  Morgan,  he  shouts  with  his 
thunder  tones,  his  well-known  battle-cry. 

He  beholds  his  men  rush  on  amid  light  and  flame,  he  hears  the  crack  of 
the  rifle,  the  roar  of  cannon,  the  tread  of  men,  rushing  forward  to  the 
conflict. 

Then  he  endeavors  to  rise.  A  gallant  soldier  offers  his  arm  to  thi 
wounded  hero. 

He  rises,  stands  for  a  moment,  and  then  falls.  But  still  his  soul  is  firm 
— Still  his  eye  glares  upon  the  distant  flight.  Not  until  he  makes  his  bed 
there  on  the  cold  snow,  in  a  pool  of  his  own  blood,  until  his  eyes  fail  and 
his  right  leg  stiffens,  does  his  soul  cease  to  beat  with  the  pulsations  of  bat 
tle.  Then  and  then  only,  the  Hero  of  the  Wilderness  is  carried  back  to 
yonder  rock. 

Wouid  to  God  that  he  had  died  there  ! 

Would  to  God  that  he  had  died  there  with  all  his  honorable  wounds  about 
him.  O  for  a  stray  bullet,  a  chance  shot,  to  still  his  proud  heart  forever 
o,  that  he  had  laid  side  by  side  with  Montgomery,  hallowed  forever  by  his 


THE    WAR-HORSE    LUCIFER.  j  f,^ 

death  of  glory.  Then  the  names  of  Arnold  and  Montgomery,  mingled  in 
one  breath,  would  have  been  joined  forever,  in  one  song  of  immortality. 

But  Montgomery  died  alone  ;  his  blood  stains  the  rock  of  Quebec.  Ar 
nold  lived  ;  his  ashes  accursed  by  his  countrymen,  rest  in  an  unknown 
grave. 

When  the  news  of  the  gallant  attack  on  Quebec — gallant  though  unsuc 
cessful — reached  Philadelphia,  the  Congress  rewarded  Benedict  Arnold  with 
the  commission  of  a  Brigadier  General. 

The  same  mob,  who,  afterwards — while  Arnold  was  yet  true  to  his  coun 
try — stoned  him  in  the  streets,  and  stoned  the  very  arm  that  had  fought  for 
them,  now  cracked  their  throats  in  shouting  his  name. 

The  very  city,  which  afterwards  was  the  scene  of  his  Dishonorable  Per 
secution,  now  flashed  out  from  its  illuminated  casements,  glory  of  the  Hero 
of  Quebec,  BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 

V.— THE    WAR-HORSE    LUCIFER. 

Now  let  us  pass  with  one  bold  flight  over  the  movements  of  the  Conti 
nental  army  in  Canada ;  let  us  hasten  at  once,  to  that  dark  night  when  the 
legions  under  Sullivan,  embarked  on  the  River  Sorel,  on  their  way  to  Lake 
Champlain  and  Crown  Point, 

Let  us  go  yonder  to  the  darkened  shore,  as  the  shades  of  night  come 
down.  A  solitary  man  with  his  horse,  yet  lingers  on  the  strand.  Yes,  as 
the  gleam  of  the  advancing  bayonets  of  Bourgoyne,  is  seen  there  through  the 
northern  woods — as  the  last  of  the  American  boats  ripples  the  river,  far  to 
the  south,  while  the  gathering  twilight  casts  the  shadow  of  the  forest  along 
the  waters,  here  on  this  deserted  strand,  a  single  warrior  lingers  with  his 
war-horse. 

There  is  the  light  canoe  waiting  by  the  shore,  to  bear  him  over  the 
waters  ;  for  he  must  leave  that  gallant  steed  with  skin  black  as  night,  and  a 
rnane  like  an  inky  wave. 

He  cannot  leave  him  for  the  advancing  foe  ;   he  must  kill  him. 

Kill  the  noble  horse  that  has  borne  him  scatheless  through  many  a  tight ! 
Kill — LUCIFER — so  the  warrior  named  him — that  brave  horse,  whose  heart 
in  battle  beats  with  a  fire  like  his  own  ?  Ah,  then  the  stout  heart  of  Arnold 
quailed.  Ah,  then  as  the  noble  horse  stooped  his  arching  neck,  as  if  to  in 
vite  his  master  to  mount  him  once  again,  and  rush  on  to  meet  the  foe,  then 
Arnold  who  never  turned  his  face  away  from  foe,  turned  his  face  away  from 
the  large  speaking  eye  of  that  horse,  Lucifer. 

He  drew  his  pistol ;  the  horse  laid  his  head  against  his  breast,  floating 
his  dark  mane  over  his  shoulders.  Arnold  who  never  shed  a  tear  tor  tne 
dead  men  in  battle,  felt  his  eyes  grow  wet.  He  was  about  to  snooi  mat 
friend,  who  had  served  him  so  well,  and  never  betrayed  him. 

"There  was  the  report  of  a   pistol — the  sound  of  a  heavy  oouy  faiui.g  oc 
the  sand — the  motion  of  a  light  canoe  speeding  over  the  waters. 
11 
t 


170  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

And  Arnold  looked  back,  and  beheld  the  dying  head  of  his  horse  faintly 
upraised  ;  he  beheld  that  large  eye  rolling  in  death. 

Ah,  little  can  you  guess  the  love  that  the  true  warrior  feels  for  his  steed  ! 
Ah,  many  a  time  in  after  life,  when  the  friend  of  his  heart  betrayed,  and  the 
beloved  one  on  whose  bosom  he  reposed,  whispered  Treason  in  his  ear,  did 
he  remember  the  last  look  of  that  dying  war-horse,  LUCIFER. 

VI.— THE    APE-AND-VIPER   GOD. 

LET  us  now  pass  rapidly  on,  in  this  our  strange  history.  At  first  a 
glorious  landscape  bursts  upon  our  view,  and  Courage  and  Patriotism  walk 
before  us  in  forms  of  God-like  beauty.  Let  us  leave  this  landscape,  let  us 
on  to  the  dim  horizon,  where  the  dark  cloud  towers  and  glooms,  bearing  in 
its  breast  the  lightnings  of  Treason. 

Let  us  pass  over  those  brilliant  exploits  on  Lake  Champlain,  which  made 
the  Continent  ring  with  the  name  of  Arnold. 

Let  us  see  that  man  rising  in  renown  as  a  soldier,  who  was  always — 
First  on  the  forlorn  hope,  last  on  the  field  of  battle. 

Let  us  behold  certain  men,  in  Camp  and  Congress,  growing  jealous  of 
his  renown. 

They  do  not  hesitate  to  charge  him  with  appropriating  to  his  own  use, 
certain  goods,  which  he  seized  when  in  command  at  Montreal.  The 
records  of  history  give  the  lie  to  this  charge  of  mercenary  business,  for 
when  Arnold  seized  the  goods,  he  wrote  to  his  commanding  general  and  to 
Congress,  that  he  was  about  to  seize  certain  stores  in  Montreal  for  the  pub 
lic  benefit.  Those  goods  were  left  to  waste  on  the  river  shore,  through  the 
reckless  negligence  of  an  inferior  officer. 

We  will  then  go  to  Congress,  and  behold  the  rise  of  that  thing,  which  the 
ancient  sculptors  would  have  impersonated  under  the  mingled  form  of  an 
ape  and  a  viper — THE  SPIRIT  OF  PARTY. 

It  is  the  same  in  all  ages.  Without  the  courage  or  the  talent,  to  project 
one  original  measure,  it  is  always  found  barking  and  snarling  at  the  heels 
of  Genius.  To-day  it  receives  Napoleon,  crowned  with  the  bloody  laurel 
of  Waterloo,  and  instead  of  calling  upon  France,  to  support  her  Deliverer, 
this  spirit  of  Party  truckles  to  foreign  bayonets,  and  requests — his  abdica 
tion.  To-morrow,  it  meets  the  victor  of  the  south,  in  a  New  Orleans'  court 
of  justice,  and  while  the  shouts  of  thousands  protected  from  British  bayo 
nets,  rings  in  his  ears,  this  spirit  of  Party  in  the  shape  of  a  solemn  Judge, 
attempts  to  brand  the  hero  with  dishonor,  by  the  infliction  of  a  thousand 
dujlar  fine.  In  the  Revolution,  Washington  held  the  serenity  of  his  soul 
amid  the  hills  of  Valley  Forge,  combating  pestilence  and  starvation,  with  an 
unshrinking  will.  All  the  while  in  the  hall  of  the  Continental  Congress, 
the  Sr>it  r>f  Party  was  at  work,  planning  a  mean  deed,  with  mean  men  for 


THE    APE-AND-VIPER    GOD.  171 

its  instruments  ;  the  overthrow  of  the  Hero  by  a  cabal,  that  was  as  formid 
able  then,  as  it  is  contemptable  now. 

In  all  ages,  to  speak  plainly,  this  spirit  of  party,  this  effervescence  of  fac 
tion,  is  the  voice  of  those  weak  and  wicked  creatures,  who  spring  into  life 
from  the  fermenting  compost  of  social  dissension.  It  never  shows  a  bold 
front,  never  speaks  a  plain  truth,  never  does  a  brave  deed.  Its  element  is 
intrigue,  more  particularly  called  low  cunning;  its  atmosphere  darkness  ;  its 
triumph  the  orgie  of  diseased  debauchery,  its  revenge  as  remorseless  as  the 
malice  of  an  ape,  or  the  sting  of  a  viper. 

A  great  man  maybe  a  Republican,  or  even  a  King-worshipper,  willing  to 
write,  or  speak,  or  fight  for  his  principles,  with  a  fearless  pen  and  voice  and 
sword.  But  he  never  can  be  a — Party  Man.  The  very  idea  of  faction, 
pre-supposes  intrigue,  and  intrigue  indicates  a  cold  heart,  and  a  dwarfed 
brain.  It  is  the  weapon  of  a  monkey,  not  of  a  man.- 

This  Spirit  of  Party,  this  manifestation  of  all  the  meanness  and  malice 
which  may  exist  in  a  nation,  even  as  the  most  beautiful  tropical  flower 
shelters  the  most  venomous  snake,  has  destroyed  more  republics,  than  all 
the  Tyrants  of  the  world  together,  were  their  deeds  multiplied  by  thousands. 
Indeed,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  it  has  been  by  playing  on  the  frothy  pas 
sions  of  contending  factions,  that  Tyrants  have  been  suffered  to  trample 
their  way  to  power,  over  the  bodies  of  freemen. 

Let  us  go  to  the  hall  of  Congress,  and  see  this  Spirit  of  Party,  the  Ape- 
and-Viper  God,  which  burdened  the  heart  of  Washington,  more  than  all  the 
terror  of  British  bayonets  or  scaffolds,  first  manifested  in  the  case  of  Arnold. 

Let  a  single  fact  attest  its  blindness  and  malignity. 

In  February,  1777,  Congress  created  five  Major  Generals,  over  the 

head  of  Benedict  Arnold.  All  of  these  were  his  juniors  ;  one  of  them  was 
from  the  militia. 

Was  that  the  way  to  treat  the  Hero  of  the  Wilderness,  of  Quebec,  of 
Ticonderoga  and  of  Champlain  ? 

Even  the  well-governed  spirit  of  Washington,  started  at  such  neglect. 
He  wrote  a  manly  and  soothing  letter  to  Arnold.  He  knew  him  to  be  a 
man  of  many  good  and  some  evil  qualities,  all  marked  and  prominent.  He 
believed  that  with  fair  treatment,  the  Evil  might  be  crushed,  the  Good 
strengthened.  Therefore,  Washington,  the  Father  of  his  Country,  wrote  a 
letter,  at  once  high-toned  and  conciliating,  to  the  Patriot,  Benedict  Arnold. 

What  was  the  course  of  Arnold  ? 

He  expostulated  with  the  party  in  Congress,  who  wished  to  drive  him 
mad. 

How  did  he  expostulate  ?  In  his  own  fiery  way.  Like  many  stout  souls 
of  that  Iron  time,  he  spoke  a  better  language  with  his  sword  than  with  his 
pen.  Let  us  look  at  the  expostulation  of  Arnold. 

It  is  night  around  the  town  of  Danbury.  Two  thousand  British 

hirelings  attack  and  burn  that  town.  Yes,  surrounded  by  his  hirelings,  ag 


172  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

sassins  in  the  shape  of  British  soldiers,  and  assassins  in  the  shape  of  Amer 
ican  Tories,  brave  General  i  ryon  holds  his  Communion  of  Blood,  by  the 
Light  of  blazing  homes. 

_n  the  dimness  of  the  daybreak  hour,  these  gallant  men,  whose  trophies 
are  dishonored  virgins,  and  blasted  homes,  are  returning  to  their  camp. 

Yonder  on  those  high  rocks,  near  the  town  of  Ridgefield,  Arnold,  with 
only  500  men,  disputes  the  path  of  the  Destroyer.  Ths  Continentals  are 
driven  back  after  much  carnage,  but  Arnold  is  the  last  man  to  leave  the  rock 

His  horse  is  shot  under  him  ;  the  British  surround  him,  secure  of  their 
prey  ;  the  dismounted  General  sits  calmly  on  his  dying  steed,  his  arms 
folded,  his  eye  sunk  beneath  the  compressed  brow.  A  burly  British  soldier 
approaches  to  secure  the  rebel — look  !  He  is  sure  of  his  prisoner.  Arnold 
oeholds  him,  beholds  the  wall  of  bayonets  and  faces  that  encircle  him.  The 
soldier  extends  his  hand  to  grasp  the  prisoner,  when  Arnold,  smiling 
calmly,  draws  his  pistol  and  shoots  the  hireling  through  the  heart.  Follow 
him  yonder,  as  he  rights  his  way  down  the  rock,  through  the  breasts  of 
i-.is  foes. 

That  was  the  right  kind  of  Expostulation  ! 

When  a  faction,  nestling  in  the  breast  of  your  country,  wrong  you,  then 
only  fight  for  that  country  with  more  determined  zeal.  Right  will  come 
at  last. 

Had  Arnold  always  expostulated  thus,  his  name  would  not  now  be  the 
Hyperbole  of  scorn.  His  name  could  at  this  hour,  rank  second,  and  only 
second  to — WASHINGTON. 

When  Congress  received  the  news  of  this  Expostulation,  Arnold  was 
raised  to  the  rank  of  Major  General.  Yet  still,  they  left  the  date  of  his 
commission,  below  the  date  of  the  commissions  of  the  other  five  Major  Gen 
erals.  This — to  use  the  homely  expression  of  a  brave  Revolutionary  soldier 
— *  was  breaking  his  head  and  giving  him  a  plaster,'  with  a  vengeance. 

Ere  we  pass  on  to  the  Battle-Day  of  Saratoga,  let  me  tell  you  an  incident 
of  strange  interest,  which  took  place  in  1777,  during  Arnold's  command  near 
Fort  Edward,  on  the  Hudson  River. 

VII.— THE    BRIDAL   EVE. 

One  summer  night,  the  blaze  of  many  lights  streaming  from  the  windows 
of  an  old  mansion,  perched  yonder  among  the  rocks  and  woods,  flashed  far 
over  the  dark  waters  of  Lake  Champlain. 

In  a  quiet  and  comfortable  chamber  of  that  mansion,  a  party  of  British 
officers,  sitting  around  a  table  spread  with  wines  and  viands,  discussed  a 
topic  of  some  interest,  if  it  was  not  the  most  important  in  the  world,  white 
the  tread  of  the  dancers  shook  the  floor  of  the  adjoining  room. 

Yes,  while  all  gaiety  and  dance  and  music  in  the  largest  hall  of  the  old 
mansion,  whose  hundred  lights  glanced  far  over  the  waters  of  Champlain— 


THE    BRIDAL   EVE.  173 

nere  in  this  quiet  room,  with  the  cool  evening  breeze  blowing  in  their  faces 
thro*  the  opened  windows,  here  this  party  of  British  officers  had  assembled 
to  discuss  their  wines  and  their  favorite  topic. 

That  topic  was — the  comparative  beauty  of  the  women  of  the  world. 

"  As  for  me,"  said  a  handsome  young  Ensign,  "  I  will  match  the  voluptu 
ous  forms  and  dark  eyes  of  Italy,  against  the  beauties  of  all  the  world !" 

"  And  I,"  said  a  bronzed  old  veteran,  who  had  risen  to  the  Colonelcy  by 
his  long  service  and  hard  fighting  ;  "  and  I  have  a  pretty  lass  of  a  daughter 
there  in  England,  whose  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  hair  would  shame  your  tragic 
beauties  of  Italy  into  very  ugliness." 

"  I  have  served  in  India,  as  you  all  must  know,"  said  the  Major,  who  sat 
next  lo  the  veteran,  "  and  I  never  saw  painting  or  statue,  much  less  living 
woman,  half  so  lovely  as  some  of  those  Hindoo  maidens,  bending  down  with 
water-lillies  in  their  hands  ;  bending  down  by  the  light  of  torches,  over  the 
dark  waves  of  the  Ganges." 

And  thus,  one  after  another,  Ensign,  Colonel,  and  Major,  had  given  their 
opinion,  until  that  young  American  Refugee,  yonder  at  the  foot  of  the  table, 
is  left  to  decide  the  argument.  That  American — for  I  blush  to  say  it — 
handsome  young  fellow  as  he  is,  with  a  face  full  of  manly  beauty,  blue  deep 
eyes,  ruddy  cheeks,  and  glossy  brown  hair,  that  American  is  a  Refugee,  and 
a  Captain  in  the  British  army. — He  wore  the  handsome  scarlet  coat,  the 
gHttering  epaulette,  lace  ruffles  on  his  bosom  and  around  his  wrists. 

"  Come,  Captain,  pass  the  wine  this  way  !"  shouted  the  Ensign ;  "  pass 
the  wine  and  decide  this  great  question  !  Which  are  the  most  beautiful : 
»he  red  cheeks  of  Merry  England,  the  dark  eyes  of  Italy,  or  the  graceful 
ibrms  of  Hindoostan?' 

The  Captain  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  tossing  off  a  bumper  of 
old  Madeira,  somewhat  flushed  as  he  was  with  wine,  replied  : 

"  Mould  your  three  models  of  beauty,  your  English  lass,  your  Italian 
queen,  your  Hindoo  nymph,  into  one,  and  add  to  their  charms  a  thousand 
graces  of  color  and  form  and  feature,  and  I  would  not  compare  this  perfection 
of  loveliness  for  a  single  moment,  with  the  wild  and  artless  beauty  of — an 
American  girl" 

The  laugh  of  the  three  officers,  for  a  moment,  drowned  the  echo  of  the 
dance  in  the  next  room. 

"  Compare  his  American  milk-maid  with  the  woman  of  Italy  !" 

"  Or  the  lass  of  England  !" 

"  Or  the  graceful  Hindoo  girl  !" 

This  laughing  scorn  of  the  British  officers,  stung  the  handsome  Refugee 
to  the  quick. 

"  Hark  ye  !"  he  cried,  half  rising  from  his  seat,  with  a  flushed  brow,  but 
a  deep  and  deliberate  voice  :  "  To-morrow,  I  marry  a  wife  :  an  American 
girl? — To-night,  at  midnight  too,  that  American  girl  will  join  the  dance  ic 


174  BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 

the    next   room.      You    shall   see  her — you    shall  judge    for   yourselves 
Whether  the  American  woman  is  not  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world  !" 

There  was  something  in  the  manner  of  the  young  Refugee,  mote  than  in 
the  nature  of  his  information,  that  arrested  the  attention  of  his  brother  offi 
cers. — For  a  moment  they  were  silent. 

"  We  have  heard  something  of  your  marriage,  Captain,""  said  the  gay 
Ensign,  "  but  we  did  not  think  it  would  occur  so  suddenly  ?  Only  think 
of  it !  To-morrow  you  will  be  gone — settled — verdict  brought  in — sentence 
passed — a  married  man  .' — But  tell  me  ?  How  will  your  lady-love  be 
brought  to  this  house  to  night  ?  I  thought  she  resided  within  the  rebel  lines  ?" 

"  She  does  reside  there  !  But  I  have  sent  a  messenger — a  friendly  Indian 
chief,  on  whom  I  can  place  the  utmost  dependence — to  bring  her  from  her 
present  home,  at  dead  of  night  thro'  the  forest,  to  this  mansion.  He  is  to 
return  by  twelve  ;  it  is  now  half-past  eleven  !" 

"  Friendly  Indian  !"  echoed  the  veteran  Colonel ;  "  Rather  an  odd  guar 
dian  for  a  pretty  woman  ! — Quite  an  original  idea  of  a  Duenna,  I  vow  !" 

"  And  you  will  match  this  lady  against  all  the  world,  for  beauty  ?"  said 
the  Major. 

"  Yes,  and  if  you  do  not  agree  with  me,  this  hundred  guineas  which  I  lay 
upon  the  table,  shall  serve  our  mess,  for  wines,  for  a  month  to  come  !  But 
if  you  do  agree  with  me — as  without  a  doubt  you  will — then  you  are  to  re 
place  this  gold  with  a  hundred  guineas  of  your  own." 

"  Agreed !  It  is  a  wager !"  chorussed  the  Colonel  and  the  two  other 
officers. 

And  in  that  moment — while  the  door-way  was  thronged  by  fair  ladies 
and  gay  officers,  attracted  from  the  next  room  by  the  debate — as  the  Refu 
gee  stood,  with  one  hand  resting  upon  the  little  pile  of  gold,  his  ruddy  face 
grew  suddenly  pale  as  a  shroud,  his  blue  eyes  dilated,  until  they  were  en 
circled  by  a  line  of  white  enamel,  he  remained  standing  there,  as  if  frozen 
to  stone. 

"  Why,  captain,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  cried  the  Colonel,  starting  up  in 
alarm,  »*  do  you  see  a  ghost,  that  you  stand  gazing  there,  at  the  blank  wall  ?" 

The  other  officers  also  started  up  in  alarm,  also  asked  the  cause  of  this 
singular  demeanor,  but  still,  for  the  space  of  a  minute  or  more,  the  Refugee 
Captain  stood  there,  more  like  a  dead  man  suddenly  recalled  to  life,  than  a 
living  being. 

That  moment  passed,  he  sat  down  with  a  cold  shiver ;  made  a  strong 
effort  as  if  to  command  his  reason ;  and  then  gave  utterance  to  a  forced 
laugh. 

"  Ha,  ha !  See  how  I've  frightened  you  !"  he  said — and  then  laughed 
that  cold,  unnatural,  hollow  laugh  again. 

And  yet,  half  an  hour  from  that  time,  he  freely  confessed  the  natur* 
ftf  the  horrid  picture  which  he  had  seen  drawn  upon  that  blank,  wains 
totted  wall,  as  if  by  some  supernatural  hand. 


THE    BRIDAL   EVE.  175 

But  now,  with  the  wine  cup  in  his  hand,  he  turned  from  one  comrade  to 
another,  uttering  some  forced  jest,  or  looking  towards  the  doorway,  crowded 
by  officers  and  ladies,  he  gaily  invited  them  to  share  in  this  remarkable 
argument :  Which  were  the  most  beautiful  women  in  the  world  \ 

As  he  spoke,  the  hour  struck. 

Twelve  o'clock  was  there,  and  with  it  a  footstep,  and  then  a  bold  Indian 
form  came  urging  through  the  crowd  of  ladies,  thronging  yonder  doorway. 

Silently,  his  arms  folded  on  his  war-blanket,  a  look  of  calm  stoicism  on 
his  dusky  brow,  the  Indian  advanced  along  the  room,  and  stood  at  the  head 
of  the  table.  There  was  no  lady  with  him  ! 

Where  is  the  fair  girl  ?  She  who  it  is  to  be  the  Bride  to-morrow  ? 
Perhaps  the  Indian  has  left  her  in  the  next  room,  or  in  one  of  the  other 
halls  of  the  old  mansion,  or  perhaps — but  the  thought  is  a  foolish  one — she 
has  refused  to  obey  her  lover's  request — refused  to  come  to  meet  him  ! 

There  was  something  awful  in  the  deep  silence  that  reigned  through  the 
room,  as  the  solitary  Indian  stood  there,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  gazing 
silently  in  the  lover's  face. 

"  Where  is  she  ?"  at  last  gasped  the  Refugee.  "  She  has  not  refused  to 
come  ?  Tell  me — has  any  accident  befallen  her  by  the  way  ?  I  know  the 
forest  is  dark,  and  the  wild  path  most  difficult — tell  me  :  where  is  the  lady 
for  whom  I  sent  you  into  the  Rebel  lines  ?" 

For  a  moment,  as  the  strange  horror  of  that  lover's  face  was  before  him, 
the  Indian  was  silent.  Then  as  his  answer  seemed  trembling  on  his  lips 
the  ladies  in  yonder  doorway,  the  officers  from  the  ball-room,  and  the  party 
round  the  table,  formed  a  group  around  the  two  central  figures — the  Indian, 
standing  at  the  head  of  the  table,  his  arms  folded  in  his  war-blanket — that 
young  officer,  half  rising  from  his  seat,  his  lips  parted,  his  face  ashy,  his 
clenched  hands  resting  on  the  dark  mahogony  of  the  table. 

The  Indian  answered  first  by  an  action,  then  by  a  word. 

First  the  action :  Slowly  drawing  his  right  hand  from  his  war-blanket,  he 
held  it  in  the  light.  That  right  hand  clutched  with  blood-stained  fingers,  a 
bleeding  scalp,  and  long  and  glossy  locks  of  beautiful  dark  hair  ! 

Then  tho  word  :  "  Young  warrior  sent  the  red  man  for  the  scalp  of  the 
pale-faced  squaw  !  Here  it  is  !" 

Yes — the  rude  savage  had  mistaken  his  message  !  Instead  of  bringing 
the  bride  to  her  lover's  arms,  he  had  gone  on  his  way,  determined  to  bring 
the  scalp  of  the  victim  to  the  grasp  of  her  pale  face  enemy. 

Not  even  a  groan  disturbed  the  silence  of  that  dreadful  moment.  Look 
there  !  The  lover  rises,  presses  that  long  hair — so  black,  so  glossy,  so 
beautiful — to  his  heart,  and  then — as  though  a  huge  weight,  falling  on  his 
brain,  had  crushed  him,  fell  with  one  dead  sound  on  the  hard  floor. 

He  lay  there — stiff,  and  pale,  and  cold — his  clenched  right  hand  still 
clutching  the  bloody  scalp,  and  the  long  dark  hair  falling  in  glossy  tresses 
over  the  floor  ! 


176  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

This  was  his  bridal  eve  ! 

Now  tell  me,  my  friends,  you  who  have  heard  some  silly  and  ignorai  i 
pretender,  pitifully  complain  of  the  destitution  of  Legend,  Poetry,  Romance, 
which  characterises  our  National  History — tell  me,  did  you  ever  read  a  tra 
dition  of  England,  or  France  or  Italy,  or  Spain,  or  any  land  under  the 
Heavens,  that  might,  in  point  of  awful  tragedy,  compare  with  the  simple 
History  of  David  Jones  and  John  M'Crea  ?  For  it  is  but  a  scene  from  this 
narrative,  with  which  you  have  all  been  familiar  from  childhood,  that  1  have 
given  you. 

When  the  bridegroom,  flung  there  on  the  floor,  with  the  bloody  scalp  and 
long  dark  tresses  in  his  hands,  arose  again  to  the  terrible  consciousness  of 
life — those  words  trembled  from  his  lips,  in  a  faint  and  husky  whisper: 

"  Do  you  remember  how,  half  an  hour  ago — I  stood  there — by  the  table 
— silent,  and  pale,  and  horror-stricken — while  you  all  started  up  round  me, 
asking  me  what  horrid  sight  I  saw  ?  Then,  oh  then,  I  beheld  the  horrid 
scene — that  home,  yonder  by  the  Hudson  river,  mounting  to  Heaven  in  the 
smoke  and  flames  !  The  red  forms  of  Indians  going  to  and  fro,  amid  flame 
and  smoke — tomahawk  and  torch  in  hand !  There,  amid  dead  bodies  and 
smoking  embers,  I  beheld  her  form — my  bride — for  whom  I  had  sent  the 
messenger — kneeling,  pleading  for  mercy,  even  as  the  tomahawk  crashed 
into  her  brain  !" 

As  the  horrid  picture  again  came  o'er  his  mind,  he  sank  senseless  again, 
still  clutching  that  terrible  memorial — the  bloody  scalp  and  long  black  hair ! 

That  was  an  awful  BRIDAL  EVE. 

VIII. 

THE   BLACK    HORSE    AND   HIS    RIDER;  OR 
"WHO   WAS  THE   HERO  OF  SARATOGA?" 

THERE  was  a  day  my  friends,  when  the  nation  rung  with  the  glory  of 
the  victor  of  Saratoga. 

The  name  of  Horatio  Gates  was  painted  on  banner,  sung  in  hymns, 
flashed  from  transparencies,  as  the  Captor  of  Burgoyne. 

Benedict  Arnold  was  not  in  the  battle  at  all,  if  we  may  believe  in  the 
bulletin  of  Gates,  for  his  name  is  not  even  mentioned  there. 

Yet  I  have  a  strange  story  to  tell  you,  concerning  the  very  battle,  which 
supported  as  it  is,  by  the  solemn  details  of  history,  throws  a  strange  light 
»n  the  career  of  Benedict  Arnold. 

It  was  the  Seventh  of  October,  1777. 

Horatio  Gates  stood  before  his  tent,  gazing  steadfastly  upon  the  two 
armies,  now  arrayed  in  order  of  battle.  It  was  a  clear  bracing  day,  mellow 
with  the  richness  of  Autumn  ;  the  sky  was  cloudless,  the  foliage  of  the 
woods  scarce  tinged  with  purple  and  gold  ;  the  buckwheat  on  yonder  fields, 
frosted  into  snowy  ripeness 

It  was  a  calm,  clear  da*y,  but  the  tread  of  legions  shook  the  ground.    From 


THE   BLACK    HORSE   AND    HIS    RIDER.  177 

every  bush  shot  the  glimmer  of  the  rifle  barrel,  on  every  'nllside  blazed  the 
sharpened  bayonet.  Flags  were  there,  too,  tossing  in  the  breeze  ;  here  the 
Banner  of  the  Stars — yonder  the  Red  Cross  gonfalon. 

Here  in  solid  lines  were  arrayed  the  Continental  soldiers,  pausing  on 
laeir  arms,  their  homely  costume  looking  but  poor  and  humble,  when  com 
pared  with  the  blaze  of  scarlet  uniforms,  reddening  along  yonder  hills  and 
over  the  distant  fields.  Ah,  that  hunting  shirt  of  blue  was  but  a  rude  dress, 
yet  on  the  19th  of  September,  scarce  two  weeks  ago,  on  these  very  hills,  it 
taught  the  scarlet-coated  Briton  a  severe  lesson  of  repentance  and  humility. 

Here,  then,  on  the  morning  of  this  eventful  day,  which  was  to  decide  the 
fate  of  America,  whether  Gates  should  flee  before  Burgoyne,  or  Burgoyne" 
lay  down  his  arms  at  the  feet  of  Gates,  here  at  the  door  of  his  tent  stood 
the  American  General,  his  countenance  manifesting  deep  anxiety. 

Now  he  gazed  upon  the  glittering  array  of  Burgoyne,  as  it  shone  over 
yonder  fields,  and  now  his  eye  roved  over  those  hardy  men  in  hunting  shirts, 
with  riiles  in  their  hands.  He  remembered  the  contest  of  the  19th,  when 
Benedict  Arnold,  at  the  head  of  certain  bold  riflemen,  carried  the  day,  before 
all  the  glitter  of  British  arms  ;  and  now — perchance — a  fear  seized  him,  that 
this  7th  of  October  might  be  a  dark  day,  for  Arnold  was  not  there.  Tliey 
had  quarrelled,  Arnold  and  Gates,  about  some  matter  of  military  courtesy 
the  former  was  now  without  a  commission  ;  the  latter  commanded,  alone, 
and  now  would  have  to  win  glory  for  himself  with  his  own  hands. 
-  Gates  was  sad  and  thoughtful,  as  in  all  the  array  of  his  uniforn,  he  stood 
before  his  tent,  watching  the  evolutions  of  the  armies,  but  all  at  once  a  smoke 
arose,  a  thunder  shook  the  ground,  a  chorus  of  shouts  and  groans,  yelled 
along  the  darkened  air.  The  play  of  death  was  begun.  The  two  flags — 
this  of  Stars,  that  of  the  Red  Cross— tossed  amid  the  smoke  of  battle,  while 
the  sky  was  clouded  in  leaden  folds,  and  the  earth  throbbed  as  with  the 
pulsation  of  a  mighty  heart. 

Suddenly  Gates  and  his  officers  started  with  surprise.  Along  the  gentle 
height  on  which  they  stood,  there  came  a  Warrior  on  a  Black  Horse,  rush 
ing  toward  the  distant  battle.  There  was  something  in  the  appearance  of 
this  Horse  and  his  Rider,  to  strike  them  with  surprise.  The  Horse  was  a 
noble  animal ;  do  you  mark  that  expanse  of  chest,  those  slender  yet  sinewy 
limbs,  that  waving  mane  and  tail?  Do  you  mark  the  head  erect,  those 'nos 
trils  quivering,  that  eye  glaring  with  terrible  light  ?  Then  his  color — the 
raven  is  not  darker  than  his  skin,  or  maiden's  cheek  more  glossy  than  his 
spotless  hide.* 


*  There  have  been  certain  learned  critics,  who  object  to  this  similie.  They  state, 
with  commendable  gravity,  that  the  idea  of  a  horse — even  a  war-horse,  who  ranks, 
jn  the  scale  of  being,  next  to  man — having  a  hide  'glossy  as  a  maiden's  cheek,'  hurts 
their  delicate  perceptions.  Their  experience  teaches  them,  that  the  word  'glossy,' 
coupled  with  '  black,'  must  refer  to  a  'glossy  black  maiden.'  Had  my  ideas  ran  iri 
that  direction,  I  never  would  have  penned  the  sentence  ;  but  as  I  do  not  possess  the 
large  experience  of  these  critics,  in  relation  to  'African  maidens,'  I  must  even  iet 


178  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

Look  upon  thai  gallant  steed,  and  remember  the  words  of  Job — 

Hast  thou  given  the  horse  strength?  hast  thou  clothed  his  neck  with  thunder? 

Cans't  thou  make  him  afraid  as  a  grasshopper.    The  glory  of  his  nostrils  is  terrible 

He  paweth  in  the  valley,  and  rejoiceth  in  his  strength ;  he  goeth  on  to  meet  th« 
•rmed  men. 

He  moeketh  at  fear  and  is  not  affrighted  ;  neither  turneth  he  back  from  the  sword. 

The  quiver  rattleth  against' him,  the  glittering  spear  and  the  shield. 

He  swalloweth  the  ground  with  fierceness  and  rage  ;  neither  believeth  he  that  it  ii 
the  sound  of  the  trumpet. 

He  saith  among  the  trumpets,  Ha !  ha  !  and  he  smelleth  the  battle  afar  off,  the 
thunder  of  the  captains  and  the  shouting. 

But  the  Rider  presents  also  a  sight  of  strange  and  peculiar  interest.  He 
is  a  man  of  muscular  form,  with  a  dark  brow  gathered  in  a  frown,  a  darker 
eye,  shooting  its  glance  from  beneath  the  projecting  forehead.  His  lip  is 
compressed — his  cravat,  unloosened,  exposes  the  veins  of  his  bared  throat, 
now  writhing  like  serpents.  It  is  plain  that  his  spirit  is  with  the  distant 
battle,  for  neither  looking  to  the  right  or  left,  not  even  casting  a  glance  aside 
to  Gates,  he  glares  over  his  horse's  head  toward  the  smoke  of  conflict. 

No  sword  waves  in  his  grasp,  but  while  the  rein  hangs  on  his  horse's 
neck,  his  hands  rest  by  his  side,  the  ringers  quivering  with  the  same  agita 
tion  that  blazes  over  his  face. 

Altogether  it  is  a  magnificent  sight,  that  warrior  in  the  blue  uniform  on 
his  Black  Horse,  who  moves  along  the  sod  at  a  brisk  walk,  his  tail  and  mane 
tossing  on  the  breeze.  And  as  the  noble  horse  moves  on,  the  soldier  speaks 
to  him,  and  calls  him  by  name,  and  lays  his  right  hand  on  his  glossy  neck. 

"  Ho  !  WARREN — forward  !" 

Then  that  Black  Horse — named  after  the  friend  of  the  soldier,  a  friend 
who  now  is  sleeping  near  Bunker  Hill,  where  he  fell — darts  forward,  with 
one  sudden  bound,  and  is  gone  like  a  flash  toward  the  distant  battle. 

This  brief  scene,  this  vision  of  the  Horse  and  his  Rider,  struck  Gates 
with  unfeigned  chagrin,  his  officers  with  unmingled  surprise. 

"  Armstrong  '."  shouted  Gates,  turning  to  a  brave  man  by  his  side,  "  Pur 
sue  that  man  !  Tell  him  it  is  my  command  that  he  returns  from  the  field. 
Away  !  Do  not  lose  a  minute,  for  he  will  do  something  rash,  if  left  to 
himself!" 

Armstrong  springs  to  his  steed,  and  while  the  heaven  above,  and  the  broad 
sweeps  of  woods  and  fields  yonder,  are  darkened  by  the  smoke  of  conflict, 
he  pursues  the  Black  Horse  and  his  Rider. 

But  that  Rider  looks  over  his  shoulder  with  a  smile  of  scorn  on  his  lip, 
*  scowl  of  defiance  on  his  brow.  Look  !  He  draws  his  sword — the  sharp 


the  sentence  stand  as  it  is.  They  also  object  to  the  horse;  saying  piteously — "  You 
make  him  a  hero  !"  I  have  no  doubt  they  would  prefer  for  a  hero,  an  excellent 
animal,  noted  for  his  deep  throat  and  long  ears.  My  taste  inclines  in  a  different 
direction. 


THE   BLACK   HORSE    AUD    HIS    RiDfcitv  170 

»lade  quivers  in  the  air.     He  points  to  the  battle,  and  lo !  he  is  gone — gone 
through  yonder  clouds — while  his  shout  echoes  over  the  fields. 

Wherever  the  fight  is  thickest,  through  the  intervals  of  battle  smoke 
and  cannon  glare,  you  may  see,  riding  madly  forward,  that  strange  soldier, 
mounted  on  his  steed,  black  as  death. 

Look  at  him,  as  with  his  face  red  with  British  blood,  he  waves  his  sword, 
and  shouts  to  the  legions.  Now  you  see  him  fighting  in  that  cannon's 
glare,  the  next  moment  he  is  away  off  yonder,  leading  the  forlorn  hope  up 
the  steep  cliff. 

Is  it  not  a  magnificent  sight,  to  see  that  nameless  soldier,  and  that  noble 
Black  Steed,  dashing  like  a  meteor  through  the  long  columns  of  battle  ? 

And  all  the  while,  Major  Armstrong,  spurring  his  steed  to  the  utmost, 
pursues  him,  but  in  vain.  He  shouts  to  him,  but  the  warrior  cannot  hear. 
He  can  see  the  Black  Horse,  through  the  lifted  folds  of  battle-smoke,  now 
and  then  he  hears  the  Rider's  shout. 

"  Warren  !     Ho  !     Warren  !     Upon  them — charge  !" 

Let  us  look  in  for  a  moment  through  these  clouds  of  battle.  Here,  over 
this  thick  hedge,  bursts  a  band  of  American  militia  men — their  rude  farmer's 
coats  stained  with  their  blood — while,  scattering  their  arms  by  the  way, 
they  flee  before  yonder  company  of  red-coat  hirelings,  who  come  rushing 
forward,  their  solid  front  of  bayonets  gleaming  in  the  battle-light. 

In  the  moment  of  their  flight,  a  Black  Horse  crashes  over  the  field. 
The  unknown  warrior  reins  his  steed  back  on  his  haunches,  right  in  the 
path  of  this  broad-shouldered  militia  man. 

"  Now, coward,  advance  another  step,  and  I  will  shoot  you  to  the  heart!" 
shouts  the  rider,  extending  a  pistol  in  either  hand.  "  What  !  are  you 
Americans — men — and  fly  before  these  British  soldiers  ?  Back  and  face 
them  once  more— seize  your  arms — face  the  foe,  or  I  myself  will  ride  you 
down  !" 

That  appeal,  uttered  with  deep,  indignant  tones,  and  a  face  convulsed 
with  passion,  is  not  without  its  effect.  The  militia  man  turns,  seizes  his 
gun  ;  his  comrades  as  if  by  one  impulse,  follow  his  example.  They  form 
in  solid  order  along  the  field,  and  silently  load  their  pieces  ;  they  wait  the 
onset  of  those  British  bayonets. 

"  Reserve  your  fire  until  you  can  touch  the  point  of  their  bayonets  !" 
was  the  whispered  command  of  the  Unknown.  Those  militia-men,  so  lately 
panic-stricken,  now  regard  the  approach  of  the  red-coats  in  silence,  yet 
calmly  and  without  a  tremor.  The  British  came  on — nearer  and  nearer 
yet — you  can  see  their  eyes  gleam,  you  can  count  the  buttons  on  their 
scarlet  coats.  .  They  seek  to  terrify  the  militia-men  with  shouts  ;  but  those 
plain  farmers  do  not  move  an  inch. 

In  one  line — but  twenty  men  in  all — they  confront  thirty  sharp  bayonets. 

The  British  advance — they  are  within  two  yards. 

**  Now  upon  the  rebels — charge  bayonet !"  shouted  the  red-coat  officer. 


ISO  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

They  spring  forward,  with  the  same  bound — look  !  Their  bayonets  al 
most  touch  the  muzzles  of  these  rifles  ! 

At  this  moment  the  voice  of  the  Rider  was  heard. 

"  Now  let  them  have  it — -fire  /" 

A  sound  is  heard — a  smoke  is  seen — twenty  Britons  are  down,  some 
writhing  in  death,  some  crawling  along  the  sod,  some  speechless  as  stone 
The  remaining  ten  start  back — but  then  is  no  time  for  surprise. 

"  Club  your  rifles,  and  charge  them  home  !"  shouts  the  Unknown,  and 
the  Black  Horse  springs  forward,  followed  by  the  militia-men.  Then  a 
confused  conflict*— a  cry  of  "  quarter !" — a  vision  of  the  twenty  farmers 
grouped  around  the  Rider  of  the  Black  Horse,  greeting  him  with  hearty 
cheers. 

Thus  it  was  all  the  day  long. 

Wherever  that  Black  Horse  and  his  Rider  went,  there  followed  victory. 
The  soldiers  in  every  part  of  the  field  seemed  to  know  that  Rider,  for  they 
hailed  him  with  shouts,  they  obeyed  his  commands,  they  rushed  after  him, 
over  yonder  cannon,  through  yonder  line  of  bayonets.  His  appearance  in 
any  quarter  of  the  field  was  succeeded  by  a  desperate  onset,  a  terrible 
charge,  or  a  struggle  hand  to  hand  with  the  soldiers  of  Burgoyne. 

Was  this  not  a  strange  thing  ?  This  unknown  man,  without  a  command 
was  obeyed  by  all  the  soldiers,  as  though  they  recognized  their  General. 
They  acknowledged  him  for  a  Leader,  wherever  he  rode  ;  they  followed 
him  to  deatli  wherever  he  gave  the  word. 

Now  look  for  him  again  ! 

On  the  summit  of  yonder  hill,  the  Black  Horse  stands  erect  on  his 
haunches,  his  fore-legs  pawing  the  air,  while  the  rider  bends  over  his  neck, 
and  looks  toward  the  clouded  valley.  The  hat  has  fallen  from  that  Rider's 
brow  ;  his  face  is  covered  with  sweat  and  blood  ;  his  right-hand  grasps  that 
battered  sword.  How  impressive  that  sight,  as  an  occasional  sun-gleam 
lights  the  Rider's  brow,  or  a  red  flash  of  battle-light,  bathes  his  face,  as  in 
rays  of  blood  ! 

At  this  moment,  as  the  black  steed  rears  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  look 
yonder  from  the  opposite  valley,  dashes  Major  Armstrong,  in  search  of  that 
Unknown  Rider,  who  sees  him  coming,  turns  his  horse's  head  and  disap 
pears  with  a  laugh  of  scorn.  Still  the  gallant  Major  keeps  on  his  way,  in 
search  of  this  man,  who  excites  the  fears  of  General  Gates — this  brave 
Rider,  who  was  about  to  do  "  something  rash." 

At  last,  toward  the  setting  of  the  sun,  the  crisis  of  the  conflict  came. 

That  fortress  yonder  on  Behmus  Height,  was  to  be  won,  or  the  Ameri 
can  cause  was  lost. 

That  fortress  was  to  be  gained,  or  Gates  was  a  dishonored  man  ;  Bur 
goyne  a  triumphant  General. 


THE   BLACK    HORSE   AND  HIS   RIDER.  181 

That  fortress  yonder — you  can  see  it  through  the  battle-clouds — with  its 
wall  of  red-coats,  its  lines  of  British  cannon,  its  forest  of  bayonets. 

Even  those  bold  riflemen,  who  were  in  the  wilderness  with  one  Benedict 
Arnold,  who  stormed  the  walls  of  Quebec,  with  this  Arnold  and  Montgomery, 
on  that  cold  daybreak  of  December  thirty-first,  1775,  even  those  men  of 
iron  fell  back,  terrified  at  the  sight. 

That  cliff  is  too  steep — that  death  is  too  certain.  Their  officers  cannot 
persuade  them  to  advance.  The  Americans  have  lost  the  field.  Even 
Morgan — that  Iron  Man  among  Iron  Men — leans  on  his  rifle,  and  despairs 
of  the  field. 

But  look  yonder  !  In  this  moment,  while  all  is  dismay  and  horror,  here, 
crashing  on,  comes  the  Black  Horse  and  his  Rider. 

That  Rider  bends  from  his  steed  ;  you  can  see  his  phrenzied  face,  now 
covered  with  sweat,  and  dust,  and  blood.  He  lays  his  hand  on  that  bold 
rifleman's  shoulder. 

44  Come  on  !"  he  cries  ;  "  you  will  not  fail  me  now  !" 

The  rifleman  knows  that  face,  that  voice.  As  though  living  fire  had 
been  poured  into  his  veins,  he  grasps  his  rifle,  and  starts  toward  the  rock. 

"  Come  on  !"  cries  the  Rider  of  the  Black  Horse,  turning  from  one 
scarred  face  to  another.  "  Come  on  !  you  will  not  fail  me  now  !" 

He  speaks  in  that  voice  which  thrills  their  blood. 

"  You  were  with  me  in  the  Wilderness  !"  he  cries  to  one  ;  "  and  you  a. 
Quebec  !"  he  shouts  to  another ;  "  do  you  remember  ?" 

"  And  you  at  Montreal  !*' 

"  And  YOU,  there  on  Lake  Champlain  !  You  know  me — you  have 
known  me  long  !  Have  I  ever  spoken  to  you  in  vain  ?  I  speak  to  you 
now — do  you  see  that  Rock  ?  Come  on  !" 

And  now  look,  and  now  hold  your  breath  as  that  black  steed  crashes  up 
the  steep  rock  !  Ah,  that  steed  quivers — he  totters — he  falls  1  No,  no  ! 
Still  on.  still  up  the  rock,  still  on  toward  the  fortress  ! 

Now  look  again — his  Rider  turns  his  face 

"  Come  on,  Men  of  Quebec,  where  I  lead,  you  will  follow  !" 

But  that  cry  is  needless.  Already  the  bold  riflemen  are  on  the  rock. 
And  up  and  onward,  one  fierce  bolt  of  battle,  with  that  Warrior  on  his  Black 
Steed,  leading  the  dread  way,  sweep  the  Men  of  the  Wilderness,  the  Heroes 
of  Quebec. 

Now  pour  your  fires,  British  cannon.  Now  lay  the  dead  upon  the  rock, 
in  tens  and  twenties.  Now — hirelings — shout  your  British  battle-cry  if 
you  can  ! 

For  look,  as  the  battle-smoke  clears  away,  look  there,  in  the  gate  of  the 
rortross  for  the  Black  Steed  and  his  Rider  ! 

That  Steed  falls  dead,  pierced  by  an  hundred  balls,  but  there  his  Rider 
waves  the  Banner  of  the  Stars,  there — as  the  British  cry  for  quarter,  he  lifts 


182  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

up  his  voice,  and  shouts  afar  to  Horatio  Gates,  waiting  yonder  in  his  tent ; 
he  tells  him  that — 

"  SARATOGA  is  WON  !" 

And  look  !  As  that  shout  goes  up  to  heaven,  he  falls  upon  his  Steed, 
with  his  leg  shattered  by  a  cannon  ball. 

He  lays  there,  on  his  dead  Steed,  bleeding  and  insensible,  while  his 
hand,  laid  over  the  neck  of  the  gallant  Horse,  still  grasps  the  Banner  of  the 
Stars. 

Who  was  the  Rider  of  the  Black  Horse  ?  Do  you  not  guess  his  name  ? 
Then  bend  down  and  gaze  upon  that  shattered  limb,  and  you  will  see  that 
it  bears  the  scars  of  a  former  wound — a  hideous  wound  it  must  have  been 
Now,  do  you  not  guess  his  name  ?  That  wound  was  received  at  the 
Storming  of  Quebec  ;  that  Rider  of  the  Black  Horse  was  BENEDICT 
ARNOLD. 

In  this  hour,  while  the  sun  was  setting  over  the  field  of  the  Seventh  of 
October — while  the  mists  of  battle  lay  piled  in  heavy  clouds  above  the  walls 
of  the  conquered  fortress, — here,  up  the  steep  rock  came  Major  Armstrong, 
seeking  for  the  man  who  "  might  do  something  rash.1" 

He  found  him  at  last,  but  it  was  in  the  gate  of  the  fortress,  on  the  body 
of  the  dead  steed,  bleeding  from  his  wound,  that  he  discovered  the  face  of 
Benedict  Arnold,  the  Victor  of  Behmus  Heights. 

This  was  not  the  moment  to  deliver  the  message  of  Gates.  No  !  for  this 
Rash  Man  had  won  laurels  for  his  brow,  defeated  Burgoyne  for  him,  rescued 
the  army  from  disgrace  and  defeat.  He  had  done  something — RASH. 

Therefore,  Armstrong,  brave  and  generous  as  he  was,  bent  over  the 
wounded  man,  lifted  him  from  among  the  heaps  of  dead,  and  bore  him  to  a 
place  of  repose. 

Would  it  be  credited  by  persons  unacquainted  with  our  history — would 
the  fact  which  I  record  with  blushes  and  shame  for  the  pettiness  of  human 
nature,  be  believed,  unless  supported  by  evidence  that  cannot  lie  ? 

General  Gates,  in  his  bulletin  of  the  battle,  did  not  mention  the  name 
of  BENEDICT  ARNOLD  ! 

Methinks,  even  now,  I  see  the  same  Horatio  flying  from  the  bloody  field 
of  Camden — where  an  army  was  annihilated — his  hair  turning  white  as 
snow,  as  he  pursues  his  terrible  flight,  without  once  resting  for  eighty  miles 
— methinks  I  hear  him  call  for  another  Arnold,  to  WIN  THIS  BATTLE,  AS 
SARATOGA  WAS  WON ! 

The  conduct  of  Arnold  in  this  battle  became  known,  in  spite  of  the 
dastardly  opposition  of  his  enemies,  and — says  a  distinguished  and  honest 
historian — Congress  relented  at  this  late  hour  with  an  ill-grace,  and  sent 
him  a  commission,  giving  him  the  full  rank  which  he  claimed. 

He  was  now  in  truth,  crowned  as  he  stood,  with  the  laurels  of  the  WU- 


ARNOLD,  THE    MILITARY    COMMANDER    OF    PHILADELPHIA.  183 

derness,  Quebec  and  Saratoga,  MAJOR  GENERAL  ARNOLD,  of  the  Continental 
Army. 

At  the  same  time  that  George  Washington  received  the  account  of  Ar 
nold's  daring  at  Saratoga,  he  also  received  from  a  Nobleman  of  France,  three 
splendid  sets  of  epaulettes  and  sword-knots,  with  the  request  to  retain  one 
for  himself,  and  bestow  the  others  on  the  two  bravest  men  of  his  army. 

George  Washington  sent  one  set  of  epaulettes  with  a  sword-knot  to  Ben 
edict  Arnold. 

When  we  next  look  for  Arnold,  we  find  him  confined  to  his  room,  with 
a  painful  wound.  For  the  entire  winter  the  limb  which  had  been  first 
broken  at  Quebec,  broken  again  at  Saratoga,  kept  him  a  prisoner  in  the 
close  confinement  of  his  chamber. 

Then  let  us  behold  him  entering  New  Haven,  in  triumph  as  the  Hero  of 
Saratoga.  There  are  troops  of  soldiers,  the  thunder  of  cannon,  little  chil 
dren  strewing  the  way  with  flowers. 

Was  it  not  a  glorious  welcome  for  the  Druggist,  who  two  years  ago,  was 
pasting  labels  on  phials  in  yonder  drug  store  ? 

— A  glorious  welcome  for  the  little  boy,  who  used  to  strew  the  road  with 
pounded  glass,  so  that  other  little  boys  might  cut  their  feet? — 

In  this  hour  of  Arnold's  triumph,  when  covered  with  renown,  he  comes 
back  to  his  childhood's  home,  may  we  not  imagine  his  Mother  looking  from 
Heaven  upon  the  glory  of  her  child  ?  Yes,  sainted  Mother  of  Arnold,  who 
long  years  ago,  laid  your  babe  upon  the  sacramental  altar,  baptized  with  the 
tears  and  prayers  of  a  Mother's  agony,  now  look  from  heaven,  and  pray  to 
God  that  he  may  die,  with  all  his  honorable  wounds  about  him  ! 

IX.— ARNOLD,  THE    MILITARY   COMMANDER   OF    PHILADELPHIA. 

LET  us  look  for  Arnold  again ! 

We  will  find  him  passing  through  the  streets  of  old  Philadelphia,  in  his 
glittering  coach,  with  six  splendid  horses,  and  liveried  outriders  ;  riding  in 
state  as  the  Governor  of  Philadelphia. 

Then  we  look  for  him  again.  In  the  dim  and  solemn  aisle  of  Christ 
Church,  at  the  sunset  hour,  behold  a  new  and  touching  scene  in  the  life  of 
Benedict  Arnold. 

It  is  the  sunset  hour,  and  through  the  shadows  of  the  range  of  pillars, 
which  support  the  venerable  roof  of  the  church,  the  light  of  the  declining 
day.  streams  in  belts  of  golden  sunshine. 

As  you  look,  the  sound  of  the  organ  fills  the  church,  and  a  passing  ray 
streams  over  the  holy  letters,  I  H  S. 

There  beside  the  altar  are  grouped  the  guests,  there  you  behold  the  Priest 
of  God,  arrayed  in  his  sacerdotal  robe,  and  there — O,  look  upon  them  weli, 
in  this  last  hour  of  the  summer  day — the  centre  of  the  circle,  stand  the 
Bridegroom  and  Bride. 


184  BENEDICT   ARNOLD 

A  lovely  girl,  scarce  eighteen  years  in  age,  with  golden  hair  and  eyes  oi 
deep  clear  blue,  rests  her  small  hand  upon  a  warrior's  arm,  and  looks  up 
lovingly  into  his  battle-worn  face.  She  is  clad  in  silks,  and  pearls,  and  gold. 
He  in  the  glorious  uniform  of  the  Revolution,  the  blue  coat,  faced  with  buff 
and  fringed  with  gold.  The  sword  that  hangs  by  his  side,  has  a  story  all 
its  own  to  tell.  Look  !  As  the  sunshine  gleams  upon  its  hilt  of  gold,  does 
it  not  speak  of  Ticonderoga,  Quebec,  and  Saratoga  ? 

And  in  the  deep  serenity  of  this  evening  hour — while  the  same  glow  of 
sunshine  gilds  the  white  monuments  in  yonder  graveyard,  and  reveals  the 
faces  of  the  wedding  guests — Benedict  Arnold,  in  the  prime  of  a  renowned 
manhood,  having  seen  thirty-eight  years  of  life,  in  all  its  phases — on  the 
ocean,  in  battle,  amid  scenes  of  blood  and  death — links  his  fate  forever  with 
that  queenly  girl,  whose  romance  and  passion  in  love  of  power,  are  written 
in  two  emphatic  words — beautiful  and  eighteen  ! 

Yes,  in  the  aisle  of  Christ  Church,  the  Hero  of  Quebec,  hears  the  word 
— husband — whispered  by  this  young  girl,  who  combines  the  witchery  of  a 
syren,  with  the  intellect  of  a  genius  ;  the  Tory  daughter  of  a  Tory  father. 

And  as  the  last  note  of  the  organ  dies  away,  along  the  aisles,  tell  me,  can 
you  not  see  the  eye  of  that  young  wife,  gleam  with  a  light  that  is  too  intense 
for  love,  too  vivid  for  hope  ?  That  deep  and  steady  gleam  looks  to  me  like 
a  fire,  kindled  at  the  altar  of  Ambition.  The  compression  of  that  parting 
lip,  the  proud  arch  of  that  white  neck,  the  queenly  tread  of  that  small  foot, 
all  bespeak  the  consciousness  of  power. 

Does  the  the  wife  of  Benedict  Arnold,  looking  through  a  dark  and  troubled 
future,  behold  the  darkness  dissipated  by  the  sunshine  of  a  Royal  Court  ? 
Does  she — with  that  young  breast  heaving  with  impatient  ambition — already 
behold  Arnold  the  Patriot,  transformed  into  Arnold  the  Courtier — and 
Traitor  ? 

Future  pages  of  this  strange  history,  alone  can  solve  these  questions. 

We  must  look  at  Arnold  now,  as  by  this  marriage  and  his  important 
position — the  Military  Commander  of  the  greatest  city  on  the  Continent — 
he  is  brought  into  contact  with  a  proud  and  treacherous  aristocracy — as  he 
feasts,  as  he  drinks,  as  he  revels  with  them. 

From  that  hour,  date  his  ruin. 

That  profligate  and  treacherous  aristocracy,  would  ruin  an  angel  from 
heaven,  if  an  angel  could  ever  sink  so  low,  as  to  be  touched  by  the  poison 
of  its  atmosphere. 

We  can  form  our  estimate  of  the  character  of  this  Aristocracy  in  the 
Revolution,  from  the  remnant  which  survives  among  us,  at  the  present  hour. 
Yes,  we  have  it  among  us  yet,  existing  in  an  organized  band  of  pretenders, 
whose  political  and  religious  creed  is  comprised  in  one  word — England — 
lovers  of  monarchy  and  every  thing  that  looks  like  monarchy,  in  the  shape 
of  privileged  orders,  and  chartered  infamies  ;  Tory  in  heart  now  as  they 
w*Mre  Tories  in  speech,  in  the  days  of  the  Revolution. 


ARNOLD,  THE  MILITARY  COMMANDER  OF  PHILADELPHIA.    185 

I  never  think  of  this  Aristocracy,  without  being  reminded  of  those  Italian 
mendicants,  who  are  seen  in  your  streets,  clad  in  shabby  tinsel,  too  proud 
to  work  the  work  of  honest  toil,  and  yet  not  too  proud  to  obtain  a  livelihood 
by  the  tricks  of  a  juggler  and  mountebank. 

— I  do  not  mean  the  aristocracy  of  worth,  or  beauty,  or  intellect,  which  gets 
its  title-deeds  from  God,  and  wears  its  coat  of  arms  in  the  heart,  and  which 
if  ever  man  saw,  I  see  before  me  now * 

But  I  do  mean  that  aristocracy,  whose  heraldry  is  written  in  the  same 
ledger  of  a  broken  bank,  that  chronicles  the  wholesale  robbery  of  the  widow 
and  the  orphan,  by  privileged  theft  and  chartered  fraud. 

If  we  must  have  an  Aristocracy,  o.-  in  other  words  a  privileged  class,  en 
titled  by  law  to  trample  on  those  who  toil,  eat  their  bread,  and  strip  from 
them  one  by  one,  the  holy  rights  for  which  their  fathers  fought  in  the  Rev 
olution,  let  us  I  pray  you,  have  a  Nobility,  like  that  of  England,  made 
respectable  by  the  lineage  of  a  few  hundred  years.  Let  us — if  we  must 
have  an  Aristocracy — constitute  by  law,  every  survivor  of  the  Revolution, 
every  child  of  a  hero  of  the  Past,  a  Noble  of  the  Land.  This  will  at  least 
bear  some  historical  justice  on  its  face. 

But  to  make  these  Tory  children  of  Tory  fathers,  a  privileged  order,  is  it 
riot  a  very  contemptable  thing  ?  As  laughable  as  the  act  of  the  Holy  Alli 
ance,  who  established  the  Restoration  of  the  Bourbons,  on  the  foundation 
laid  by  Napoleon. 

We  have  all  seen  the  deeds  of  the  Tory  Aristocracy  of  Philadelphia. 
To-day,  it  starves  some  poor  child  of  genius — whom  it  has  deluded  with 
hopes  of  patronage — and  suffers  him  to  go  starving  and  mad,  from  the  quiet 
of  his  studio,  to  the  darkness  of  the  Insane  Asylum.  To-morrow,  it 
parades  in  its  parties,  and  soirees  some  pitiful  foreign  vagrant,  who  calls  him 
self  a  Count  or  Duke,  and  wears  a  fierce  beard,  and  speaks  distressing  Eng 
lish.  This  aristocracy  never  listens  to  a  lecture  on  science,  or  history, 
much  less  a  play  from  Shakspeare,  but  at  the  same  time,  will  overflow  a 
theatre,  to  hear  a  foreign  mountebank  do  something  which  is  called  singing, 
or  to  witness  the  indecent  postures  of  some  poor  creature,  who  belies  the 
sacred  name  of  Woman,  which  obscene  display  is  entitled  dancing. 

There  is  nothing  which  this  aristocracy  hates  so  fervently,  as  Genius, 
native  to  the  soil.  It  starved  and  neglected  that  great  original  mind,  Charles 
Brockden  Brown,  and  left  him  to  die  in  his  solitary  room,  while  all  Europe 
was  ringing  with  his  praise. 

It  never  reads  an  American  book,  unless  highly  perfumed  and  sweetened 
with  soft  words,  arid  tricked  out  in  pretty  pictures.  It  takes  its  history, 
literature,  religion,  second-hand  from  England,  and  bitterly  regrets  that  the 
plainness  of  our  Presidential  office,  is  so  strong  contrasted  with  the  impe- 


On  the  occasion  of  the  third  lecture,  before  the  Win  Institute. 
12 


186  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

rial  grandeur  of  Great  Britain's  hereditary  sovereign — a  Queen,  who  unporu 
a  husband  from  the  poverty  of  some  German  Kingdom,  three  miles  squaref 
and  saddles  her  People  with  an  annual  Prince  or  Princess,  whose  advent 
costs  one  hundred  thousand  yellow  guineas. 

This  aristocracy  never  can  tolerate  native  Genius.  Because,  in  its  fer 
menting  corruption,  it  resembles  a  hot-bed,  it  plausibly  fancies  that  every 
thing  which  springs  from  such  a  soil,  must  be  at  once  worthless  and 
ephemeral. 

In  one  word,  when  we  survey  its  varied  phrases  of  pretension  and  mean 
ness,  we  must  regret,  that  some  bold  Lexicographer  had  not  poured  into  one 
syllable,  the  whole  vocabulary  of  scorn,  in  order  to  coin  a  word  to  be  ap 
plied  to  this  thing,  which  always  creeps  when  it  attempts  to  fly,  crawls 
when  it  would  soar — this  Aristocracy  of  the  Quaker  City. 

This  Tory  aristocracy  existed  in  full  vigor,  at  the  time  Arnold  assumed 
the  command  in  Philadelphia. 

You  will  observe  that  his  position  was  one  of  singular  difficulty ;  Wash 
ington  himself  would  not  have  given  general  satisfaction,  had  he  been  in 
Arnold's  place.  In  after  time,  Jackson  at  New  Orleans,  excited  the  enmity 
of  a  bitter  faction,  because  he  held  the  same  power,  which  Arnold  once 
exercised — that  of  a  Military  Governor,  who  commands  in  the  same  town 
with  a  Civil  Magistracy. 

You  will  remember,  that  the  very  Aristocracy,  who  yesterday  had  been 
feasting  General  Howe,  sharing  the  orgies  of  the  British  soldiery,  swimming 
in  the  intoxication  of  the  Meschianza,  were  now  patriots  of  the  first  water. 
The  moment  the  last  British  boat  pushed  from  the  wharf,  these  gentlemen 
changed  their  politics.  The  sound  of  the  first  American  trooper's  horse, 
echoing  through  the  streets  of  the  city,  accomplished  their  conversion. 
Yesterday,  Monarchists,  Tories  ;  to-day,  Patriots,  Whigs,  these  gentlemen, 
with  dexterity  peculiar  to  their  race,  soon  crept  into  positions  of  power  and 
trust. 

From  their  prominence,  as  well  as  from  his  marriage  with  Miss  Shippen, 
Arnold  was  thrown  into  constant  intimacy  with  these  pliable  politicians. 

Having  grounded  these  facts  well  in  your  minds,  you  will  be  prepared  to 
hear  the  grumbling  of  these  newly-pledged  patriots,  when  Arnold — who 
yesterday  was  such  a  splendid  fellow,  sprinkling  his  gold  in  banquets  and 
festivals— obeyed  a  Resolution  of  the  Continental  Congress,  and  by  procla 
mation,  prohibited  the  sale  of  all  goods,  in  the  city,  until  it  was  ascertained 
whether  any  of  the  property  belonged  to  the  King  of  Great  Britain  or  his 
subjects. 

This  touched  the  Tory-Whigs  on  the  tenderest  point.  Patriotism  was  a 
beautiful  thing  with  them,  so  long  as  it  vented  itself  in  fine  words  ;  but 
when  it  touched  King  George's  property,  or  the  property  of  King  George's 
4riends,  they  began  to  change  their  opinion. 

Their  indignation  knew  no  bounds.     They  dared  not  attack  Washington* 


ARNOLD,  THE    MILITARY    COMMANDER    OF   PHILADELPHIA.  187 

they  dared  not  assail  the  Congress.  Therefore,  they  opened  their  batterie* 
of  malignancy  and  calumniation  against  Arnold. 

Where  that  brave  man  had  one  fault,  they  magnified  it  into  ten.  Where 
he  was  guilty  of  one  wrong  act,  they  charged  him  with  a  thousand. 

Not  seven  months  of  Arnold's  command  had  transpired,  before  Congress 
and  Washington  were  harrassed  with  letters  asking  for  the  trial  and  disgrace 
of  Arnold. 

At  last  the  matter  was  brought  before  Congress,  and  a  Committee  of  that 
body,  after  a  thorough  examination,  gave  to  Benedict  Arnold,  "  a  vindication 
from  any  criminally  in  the  matters  charged  against  him." 

Then  the  war  was  opened  against  Arnold  anew  ;  then  the  Mob — not  the 
mechanics  or  men  of  toil — but  the  Rabble  who  do  no  work,  and  yet  have 
time  to  do  all  the  riots  in  your  large  cities,  were  taught  to  hoot  his  name  in 
scorn,  to  stone  him  in  the  streets,  him,  the  Hero  of  Quebec.  Yes,  the  out- 
sasts  of  the  city,  were  taught  to  cover  him  with  filth,  to  wound  with  theii 
missiles,  the  very  limb  that  had  been  broken  by  a  cannon  ball,  on  the  barrier 
of  Quebec. 

Congress  did  not  act  upon  the  Report  of  the  Committee.  Why  was  this  ? 
That  report  was  referred  to  a  joint  Committe  of  Congress  and  the  Assem 
bly.  At  last  General  Washington  was  harrassed  into  appointing  a  Court 
Martial.  It  was  done,  the  day  fixed,  but  the  accusers  of  Arnold  were  not 
ready  for  trial.  Yes,  loud  as  they  were  in  their  clamors,  they  asked  delay 
after  delay,  and  a  year  passed. 

All  the  while,  these  men  were  darkening  the  character  of  Arnold,  all  the 
while  he  stood  before  the  world  in  the  light  of  an  untried  CRIMINAL.  The 
Hero  of  Quebec  was  denied  a  right,  which  is  granted  to  the  vilest  felon. 
Accused  of  a  crime,  he  was  refused  the  reasonable  justice  of  a  speedy  trial. 

At  last,  after  his  accusers  had  delayed  the  trial,  on  various  pretences,  after 
the  sword  of  the  4  unconvicted  criminal,'  resigned  on  the  18th  of  March, 
1779,  had  been  taken  up  again  by  him,  on  the  1st  of  June,  the  day  ap 
pointed  for  his  trial,  in  order  to  defend  his  country  once  again,  at  last,  on 
the  20th  of  December,  1779,  the  Court  Martial  was  assembled  at  the  head 
quarters  of  Washington,  near  Morristown. 

At  last  the  day  came — Arnold  was  tried — and  after  a  month  consumed  in 
the  careful  examination  of  witnesses  and  papers,  was  found  guilty  of  two 
colossal  enormities.  Before  we  look  at  them,  let  us  remember,  that  his 
accusers,  on  this  occasion,  were  General  Joseph  Reed,  and  other  members 
of  the  Supreme  Executive  council  of  Pennsylvania. 

Here  are  the  offences  : 

I.  Jin  irregularity,  without  criminal  intention,  in  granting  a  written 
protection  to  a  vessel,  before  his  command  in  Philadelphia,  while  at  Val 
ley  Forge. 

II,  USING  THE  PUBLIC  WAGONS  OF   PENNSYLVANIA,  FOR  THE    TRANSPORTA 
TION  OF  PRIVATE  PROPERTY  FROM  EGG  HARBOR. 


188  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

Those  were  his  colossal  crimes  ! 

The  other  two  charges  were  passed  aside  by  the  court. 

It  was  upon  these  charges  that  the  whole  prosecution  rested — a  military 
irregularity  in  granting  a  written  protection,  before  he  assumed  command  in 
Philadelphia,  and — O,  the  enormity  of  the  crime  almost  exceeds  the  power 
of  belief — a  sacriligious  use  of  the  baggage  wagons  of  Pennsylvania  ! 

For  this  Benedict  Arnold  had  been  pursued  for  at  least  thirteen  months, 
with  a  malignity  insatiable  as  the  blood-hounds  thirst.  For  this  he  had 
been  held  up  to  all  the  world  as  a  criminal,  for  this  pelted  in  the  streets,  and 
for  this,  the  Hero  of  Quebec  and  Saratoga  and  Champlain,  was  to  be  pub 
licly  disgraced,  REPRIMANDED  by  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

Let  us  hear  what  that  honest  man,  Jared  Sparks,  says  of  the  matter : 

"  It  was  proved  to  the  court,  that  although  the  wagons  had  been  em 
ployed  for  transporting  private  property,  they  were  nevertheless  used  at 
private  expense,  without  a  design  to  defraud  the  public,  or  impede  the 
military  service.11 

And  the  man  who  had  poured  out  his  blood  like  water,  on  the  frozen 
ground  of  Quebec,  was  to  be  stamped  with  eternal  infamy  for  "  USING  THE 

PUBLIC  WAGONS  OF    PENNSYLVANIA  !" 

You  will  pardon  the  italics  and  capitals.  These  words  ought  to  be  in 
scribed  in  letters  of  fire  on  a  column  of  adamant ! 

Is  it  possible  for  an  honest  man  to  read  this  part  of  the  tragedy,  without 
feeling  the  blood  boil  in  his  veins  ? 

My  friends,  here  is  the  only  belief  we  can  entertain  in  relation  to  this 
mutter.  At  the  same  time  that  we  admit  that  Arnold  was  betrayed  into 
serious  faults  through  his  intimacy  with  the  Tory  aristocracy  of  Philadel 
phia,  as  well  as  from  the  inherent  rashness  of  his  character — that  very 
rajhness  forming  one  of  the  elements  of  his  iron-souled  bravery — we  must 
also  admit,  that  among  the  most  prominent  of  his  accusers  or  persecutors, 
as  you  please, — was  "  a  man  whose  foot  had  once  been  lifted  to  take  the 
step  which  Arnold  afterwards  took.11 

Before  large  and  respectable  audiences  of  my  countrymen,  assembled  in 
at  least  three  States  of  this  Union,  I  have  repeatedly  stated  that  I  was 
"  prepared  to  prove  this  fact,  from  evidence  that  cannot  lie."  No  answer 
was  ever  made  to  the  assertion.  In  the  public  papers  I  have  repeated  the 
statement,  expressing  my  readiness  to  meet  any  person,  in  a  frank  and 
searching  discussion  of  the  question — Was  Arnold's  chief  accuser  in  heart 
a  Traitor?  Still  no  answer  ! 

It  is  true,  that  other  and  unimportant  points  of  my  history  have  been 
fiercely  attacked.  For  example,  when  following  the  ringer  of  history,  I 
awarded  to  Arnold  tlie  glory  of  Saratoga,  a  very  respectable  but  decidedly 
anonymous  critic,  brought  all  his  artillery  to  bear  upon  a  line,  which  had  a 
reference  to  the  preparation  of  buckwheat  cakes! 

So,  when  I  expressed  my  readiness  to  examine  the  character  of  Arnold'* 


ARNOLD,  THE    MILITARY    COMMANDER    OF    PHILADELPHIA.    189 

<*hief  accuser,  a  very  prominent  individual,  who  has  made  that  accuser's 
deeds  the  subject  of  laborious  and  filial  panegyric,  instead  of  meeting  the 
question  like  a  man,  crept  away  into  some  dark  corner  of  history,  and  called 
a  sincere  patriot  by  the  portentous  name  of — Infidel  !  This  was  very  much 
like  the  case  of  the  patriot  John  Bull,  who,  hearing  a  Frenchman  examine 
ne  cnaracter  of  George  the  Third,  in  no  very  measured  terms,  replied  by  a 
bitter  attack  on  the  Emperor  of  Timbuctoo  ! 

Having  therefore,  repeatedly  stated  that  I  was  ready  to  give  a  careful  and 
impartial  investigation  of  the  history  of  Arnold's  chief  accuser,  I  will  now 
enter  upon  the  subject  as  a  question  comprised  within  the  limits  of  legiti 
mate  history. 

Is  it  not  reasonable  to  suppose,  that  the  man  who  took  upon  himself  the 
work  of  crushing  Benedict  Arnold,  must  have  been  a  very  good  citizen,  a 
very  sincere  patriot,  and  if  not  a  great  warrior,  at  least  a  very  honest 
statesman  ? 

Have  we  not  a  right  to  examine  the  character  of  this  accuser  ?  Remem 
ber — this  trial  and  disgrace  of  Arnold,  was  the  main  cause  of  his  treason — 
and  then  dispute  our  right  to  search  the  character  of  his  Accuser,  if  you  can. 

Let  us  then,  summon  a  solemn  Court  of  history.  Let  us  invoke  the 
Ghost  of  Washington  to  preside  over  its  deliberations.  Yes,  approaching 
that  Ghost,  with  an  awful  reverence,  let  us  ask  this  important  question. 

44  Was  not  General  John  Cadwallader  your  bosom  friend,  0,  Washington, 
the  man  whose  heart  and  hand  you  implicitly  trusted  ?  Dhd  he  not  defend 
you  from  the  calumniation  of  your  enemies  ?  Was  he  not,  in  one  word,  a 
Knight  of  the  Revolution,  without  fear  and  without  reproach  ?" 

And  the  word  that  answers  our  question,  swelling  from  the  lips  of  Wash 
ington,  is—44  YES  !" 

We  will  ask  another  question. 

44In  the  dark  days  of  December,  1776,  when  with  a  handful  of  half-clad 
men,  you  opposed  the  entire  force  of  the  British  army,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Delaware,  who  then,  O,  Washington,  stood  by  your  side,  shared  in  your 
counsels,  and  received  your  confidence  ?" 

"  Benedict  Arnold  !" 

If  these  answers,  which  the  Ghost  of  Washington  whispers  from  every 
page  of  history,  be  true,  it  follows  that  General  John  Cadwallader  is  an  im 
partial  witness  in  this  case,  and  that  Benedict  Arnold  was  a  sincere  Patriot 
in  the  winter  of  1776. 

Then  let  us  listen  to  the  details  of  facts,  stated  by  General  Cadwallader. 
and  by  him  published  to  the  world,  attested  by  his  proper  signature. 


190  BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 


X.— WHO  WAS   THIS   ACCUSER1 

IN  December,  1776,  a  few  days  before  the  battle  of  Trenton,  in  the  dark 
eat  hour  of  the  Revolution,  when  Washington  and  his  army  were  menaced 
with  immediate  destruction,  an  important  conversation  took  place  at  Bristol, 
on  the  banks  of  the  Delaware. 

The  interlocutors  were  John  Cadwallader  and  the  Adjutant  General  of 
the  Continental  Army. 

The  conversation  was  explicit;  no  disguise  about  its  meaning,  not  a 
doubt  in  the  sound  or  purport  of  its  every  word. 

The  adjutant  general  of  the  Continental  army,  to  whom  Washington  had 
entrusted  duties,  involving,  in  their  faithful  performance,  the  well-being, 
perchance  the  existence  of  that  army,  remarked  to  General  Cadwaliader : 

"  That  he  did  not  understand  following  the  fortunes  of  a  broken-down 
and  shattered  army " 

At  the  very  moment  that  he  said  this,  Benedict  Arnold  was  out  yonder, 
on  the  brink  of  the  ice-bound  river,  assisting  with  his  heart  and  hand,  the 
movements  of  George  Washington. 

But  sheltered  by  the  convenient  silence  of  a  comfortable  chamber,  the 
Adjutant  General  continued: 

"  That  the  time  allowed  by  General  Howe,  for  offering  pardons  and 
protections  to  persons  who  would  come  in,  before  the  1st  of  'January ',  1777, 
had  nearly  expired " 

The  philosophical  nature  of  this  remark  becomes  evident,  when  you  re 
member  that  at  the  very  hour  when  the  Adjutant  General  spoke,  there  was 
a  price  set  upon  the  head  of  the  Rebel  Washington. 

"  And — "  continued  this  Adjutant  General — "  1  have  advised  the  Lieu 
tenant  Colonel,  my  brother,  now  at  Burlington,  to  remain  there,  and  take 
protection  and  swear  allegiance,  and  in  so  doing  he  will  be  perfectly 
justifiable." 

You  will  all  admit,  that  this  was  beautiful  and  refreshing  language  from 
any  one,  especially  from  the  Adjutant  General  of  the  Continental  army. 

Much  more  was  said  of  similar  import,  but  the  amount  of  the  whole  con 
versation  was  in  one  word,  that  the  Adjutant  General,  tired  and  sick  of 
the  Rebel  cause,  was  about  to  swear  allegiance  to  his  Majesty,  King 
George. 

General  Cadwallader,  the  bosom  friend  of  Washington,  heard  these  re 
marks  with  surprise,  with  deep  sorrow.  From  pity  to  the  Adjutant  Gen 
eral,  he  locked  them  within  the  silence  of  his  own  breast,  until  the  brilriant 
attack  at  Trenton,  which  took  place  a  few  days  afterwards,  made  it  a  safe 
as  well  as  comfortable  thing,  for  the  trembling  patriot  to  remain  true  to  hi» 
country's  flag. 


WHO    WAC    1!i:«   ACCUSE  >  191 

Time  passed,  and  General  Cadwallader  communicate  \h\f  conversation 
lo  certain  prominent  men  of  the  time,  thinking  it  better  from  ipotives  of 
kindness,  to  avoid  a  public  exposure  of  the  Adjutant  General's  intended 
Treason. 

But  in  the  year  1778,  a  circumstance  took  place  which  forced  the  truth 
from  the  lips  of  this  memorable  witness. 

It  was  in  a  Court  of  Justice.  A  young  man  charged  with  Treason,  was 
on  trial  for  his  life.  The  Adjutant  General,  now  transformed  into  an  At 
torney  General,  urged  his  conviction  with  all  the  vehemence  of  which  he 
was  capable.  There  may  have  been  some  extenuating  circumstances  in  the 
young  man's  case,  or  perhaps,  the  manner  of  the  Attorney  General,  betrayed 
more  than  patriotic  zeal,  for  General  Cadwallader  a  spectator  in  the  Court 
rilled  with  indignation  that  he  could  not  master,  uttered  these  memorable 
words : 

"It  argues  the  effrontery  of  baseness — "  said  the  brave  officer,  directing 
his  eagle  eye  toward  the  Attorney  General — "  in  one  man  to  pursue  cm* 
other  man  to  death,  for  taking  a  step  which  his  own  foot  had  once  beef 
raised  to  take.'" 

These  were  hard  words.  The  steady  look  and  pointed  finger,  and  deej 
voice  of  Cadwallader,  made  them  intelligible  to  the  entire  Court. 

The  Adjutant  General  never  forgot  them. 

In  the  course  of  some  four  or  rive  years,  a  discussion  was  provoked,  facf 
after  fact  came  out  in  its  proper  colors,  and  General  Cadwallader  accused 
the  Adjutant  General  before  the  whole  world,  of  the  painful  dereliction 
stated  in  the  previous  pages. 

He  did  not  merely  accuse,  but  supported  his  accusation  by  such  evidence 
that  we  are  forced  to  the  conclusion  in  plain  words,  that  either  the  Adjutant 
General  was  a  Traitor  in  heart,  speech  and  purpose,  or  General  Cadwal 
lader  was  a  gross  calumniator. 

The  evidence  which  he  produced  in  his  published  pamphlet,  was  a  thou 
sand  times  stronger  than  that  which  stripped  the  laurel  from  Arnold's  brow. 

As  a  part  of  this  evidence,  we  rind  a  letter  from  Alexander  Hamilton,  dated 
Philada.  March  14,  1783,  in  which  that  distinguished  statesman  affirms  his 
remembrance  of  a  conversation,  which  occurred  between  him  and  General 
Cadwallader,  in  '77,  and  which  embraced  a  distinct  narrative  of  the  derelic 
tion  of  the  Adjutant  General  in  December,  '76. 

Benjamin  Rush,  and  other  eminent  men  of  that  time,  by  letters  dated  5th 
Oct.  1782,  March  12,  1783,  and  March  3,  1783,  either  record  their  re 
membrance  of  a  conversation,  with  General  Cadwallader,  in  which  he  nar 
rated  the  treasonable  sentiments  of  the  Adjutant  General,  or  distinctly  af 
firm  a  conversation  with  that  individual  himself,  had  before  the  battle  of 
Trenton,  and  full  of  Disloyalty  to  the  Contin€ntal  cause. 

Alexander  Hamilton  and  Benjamin  Rush,  were  never  given  to  falsehood. 
And  then  comes  a  statement  from  Major  Win.  Bradford,  which  dated 


192  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

March  15,  1783,  strips  the  Adjutant  General  of  every  vestige  of  patriotisn,. 
This  brave  officer  states,  that  while  he  was  at  Bristol,  in  command  of  the 
Philadelphia  militia,  in  1776,  the  Adjutant  General  went  over  to  Burling 
ton,  where  the  enemy  were,  and  was  gone  three  days  and  nights.  It  wan 
the  opinion  of  Col.  Bayard,  that  he  had  gone  over  to  swear  allegiance  to 
King  George. 

Such  is  but  a  portion  of  the  testimony,  presented  in  the  memorable 
pamphlet,  signed  by  the  bosom  friend  of  Washington,  John  Cadwallader. 

This  case  demands  no  elaborate  argument,  no  expenditure  of  invective. 
Either  the  Adjutant  General  was  a  Traitor,  or  John  Cadwallader  a  *  *  *  *. 

There  is  no  skulking  away  from  the  question.  One  way  or  other  it 
must  be  decided  by  every  honest  man,  who  peruses  the  evidence. 

You  will  remember  that  1  give  no  opinion  about  the  matter.  There  are 
the  facts ;  judge  every  honest  man  for  himself.  That  John  Cadwallader 
was  no  base  calumniator,  is  attested  by  the  records  of  history,  by  the 
friendship  of  Washington. 

To  what  fearful  conclusion  then,  are  we  led  ? 

That  the  Adjutant  General  in  the  dark  days  of  1776,  not  only  avowed 
nis  intention  of  deserting  the  Continental  army,  but  was  in  fact,  three  days 
and  nights  in  the  camp  of  the  enemy. 

Was  this  the  conduct  of  a  Patriot,  or — it  is  a  dark  word,  and  burns  the 
forehead  on  which  it  is  branded — A  TRAITOR  ! 

This  adjutant  general,  was  General  JOSEPH  REED,  President  of  the  Su 
preme  Council  of  Pennsylvania,  and  the  prominent  accuser  of  BENEDICT 
AHNOLD. 

In  his  defence  before  the  Court  Martial,  Arnold  used  these  words : 
— "  I  can  with  boldness  say  to  my  persecutors  in  general,  and  to  the 
chief  of  them  in  particular — that  in  the  hour  of  danger,  when  the  affairs  of 
America  wore  a  gloomy  aspect,  when  our  illustrious  general  was  retreating 
through  America,  with  a  handful  of  men,  I  did  not  propose  to  my  associates 
basely  to  quit  the  General,  and  sacrifice  the  cause  of  my  country  to  my  per 
sonal  safety,  by  going  over  to  the  enemy,  and  making  my  peace." — 

Can  you  see  his  eye  flash,  as  he  looks  upon  the  «*  Chief  of  his  Per 
secutors  ?" 

XI.— THE    DISGRACE    OF   ARNOLD. 

AT  last  the  day  of  the  Reprimand  came — Father  of  Mercy  what  a  scene! 

That  man  Arnold,  brave  and  proud  as  Lucifer,  standing  among  the  gene 
rals,  beside  whom  he  had  fought  and  bled — standing  *he  centre  of  all 
syes,  in  the  place  of  the  Criminal,  with  the  eye  of  Washington  fixed  upon 
him  in  reproof — with  a  throng  of  the  meaner  things  of  the  Revolution. 
wh  in  the  British  King  might  have  bought,  had  he  thought  them  worth  the 


THE   DISGRACE    OF   ARNOLD.  193 

ouying,  grouped  about  him  ;  these  petty  men — who  had  been  warming 
themselves  at  comfortable  tires,  while  the  hands  of  Arnold  were  freezing  on 
the  ramparts  of  Quebec — exulting  at  his  disgrace,  glorying  in  his  shame, 
chuckling  at  his  fall 

It  was  too  much  for  Arnold.  That  moment  the  iron  entered  his  soul, 
and  festered  there. 

From  that  moment  he  stood  resolved  in  his  work  of  treason.  From  that 
moment  his  country  lost  a  soldier,  history  one  of  her  brightest  names, 
Washington  his  right-hand  man,  the  Revolution  its  bravest  Knight.  In  one 
word,  from  that  moment  John  Andre  lost  his  life,  Benedict  Arnold  his 
honor  ;  Sir  Henry  Clinton  gained  a — Traitor. 

He  could  have  borne  reproof  from  the  lips  of  Washington,  but  to  be  re 
buked  while  the  dwarf-patriots  were  standing  by,  while  the  little  *  great 
men'  were  lookers  on  ! — It  was  indeed,  too  much  for  Arnold. 

It  is  true,  that  the  reprimand  of  Washington  was  the  softest  thing  that 
might  bear  the  name — "  1  reprimand  you  for  having  forgotten,  that  in 
proportion  as  you  have  rendered  yourself  formidable  to  our  enemies,  you 
should  have  shown  moderation  towards  our  citizens.  Exhibit  again 
those  splendid  qualities,  which  have  placed  you  in  the  rank  of  our  most 
distinguished  generals" — 

These  were  the  words  of  Washington,  worthy  of  his  hero-heart,  but 
from  that  moment,  Arnold  the  Patriot  was  dead. 

At  that  instant  from  the  terrible  chaos  of  dark  thoughts,  wounded  pride, 
lacerated  honor,  sprung  into  birth  a  hideous  phantom,  known  by  history  as 
— Arnold  the  Traitor. 

Had  he  but  taken  the  advice  of  Washington,  had  he  but  looked  derision 
upon  his  foes  !  Raising  himself  in  all  his  proud  height,  his  eye  blazing 
with  that  stern  fire  which  lighted  up  his  bronzed  face  on  the  ramparts  of 
Quebec,  his  voice  deep,  hollow,  ringing  with  the  accents  of  scorn,  he  should 
have  spoken  to  his  enemies  words  like  these  : 

"  Look  !  Pitiful  creatures  of  an  hour,  how  your  poisoned  arrows  fall 
harmless  from  this  bosom,  like  water  from  the  rock  !  Things  of  an  hour, 
creatures  of  falsehood,  who  » trafficked  to  be  bought,'  while  I  served  my 
country  in  hunger  and  blood  and  cold,  I  hurl  my  defiance  to  your  very 
hearts  !  I  will  yet  live  down  your  persecution.  In  the  name  of  Washing 
ton  and  the  Revolution,  I  swear  it !  I  will  yet  write  my  name  there — on 
the  zenith  of  my  country's  fame, — there,  where  the  vulture  beak  of  slander 
the  hyena  fang  of  malice,  cannot  taint  nor  touch  it  !" 

But  he  failed  to  do  this.  Unlike  Jackson,  who  covered  with  the  glory  of  New 
Orleans,  rested  patiently. for  thirty  years,  under  the  odium  of  an  unjust  fine, 
Arnold  did  not  possess  the  power — to  live  down  persecution.  He  was 

iOSt. 

In  order  to  unde?stand  the  scene  of  his  reprimand  in  all  its  details,  we 
must  wander  back  through  tho  shadows  of  seventy  years. 


194  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

That  tine  old  mansion  of  Morristown  rises  before  us,  m  <hc  calm  light  of 
a  winter's  day.  There  is  snow  upon  the  ground,  but  it  is  frozen,  until  il 
resembles  an  immense  mirror,  which  flashes  back  to  the  sky  the  light  of 
the  sun.  Yonder  we  behold  the  mansion,  standing  on  a  gentle  eminence 
Those  poplars  before  the  door,  or  rather  beside  the  fence  at  the  foot  of  the 
elevation,  are  stripped  of  their  foliage.  The  elm  yonder,  bared  of  its  green 
leaves,  shines  with  a  thousand  limbs  of  ice  and  snow.  All  is  cold,  serene, 
desolate. 

We  enter  this  mansion.  Without  pausing  to  survey  its  massive  front,  or 
steep  roof  or  projecting  eves,  we  ascend  the  range  of  steps,  give  the  word 
to  the  sentinels,  and  pass  beneath  these  pillars  which  guard  the  hall  door. 

Step  gently  along  this  hall —  nter  with  uncovered  brow,  into  this  large 
room,  where  the  light  of  a  cheerful  hickory  fire  glowing  upon  the  hearth, 
mingles  with  the  winter-sunshine,  softened  as  it  is  by  the  thick  curtains 
along  yonder  windows. 

Gaze  with  reverence,  for  great  men  are  gathered  here.  Do  not  let  your 
eye  wander  to  those  antique  chairs,  fashioned  of  walnut,  and  carved  into 
various  fantastic  forms,  nor  to  the  heavy  mouldings  of  the  mantle-piece,  nor 
to  the  oval  mirror  encircled  by  a  wreath  of  gold  flowers. 

But  by  the  hearty  glow  of  the  hearthside  flame,  gaze  I  beseech,  upon 
this  company  of  heroes,  who  dressed  in  blue  and  buff  stand  side  by  side, 
leaving  an  open  space  before  the  fire. 

A  large  table  is  there,  on  whose  green  cloth,  are  laid  various  papers, 
burdened  with  seals,  and  traced  with  celebrated  signatures.  In  the  midst, 
you  behold  a  sword  resting  in  its  sheath,  its  handle  carved  in  the  shape  of 
an  eagle's  beak.  That  sword  has  seen  brave  days  in  the  Wilderness  and 
at  Quebec. 

Three  figures  arrest  your  attention. 

Neither  the  knightly  visage  of  Wayne,  nor  the  open  countenance  of  the 
Boy-General,  La  Fayette,  nor  the  bluff  hearty  good-humor  of  Knox,  com 
mand  your  gaze.  They  are  all  there.  There  too,  Cadwallader  the  bosom 
friend  of  Washington,  and  Greene  so  calmly  sagacious,  and  all  the  heroes 
of  that  time  of  trial.  Yet  it  is  not  upon  these  you  gaze,  though  their  faces 
are  all  darkened  by  an  expression  of  sincere  sorrow. 

It  is  upon  those  three  figures  near  the  fire  that  you  look,  and  hush  each 
whisper  as  you  gaze. 

The  first  standing  with  his  face  to  the  light,  his  form  rising  above  the 
others,  superior  to  them  all  in  calm  majesty  of  look  and  bearing.  The 
sunshine  streaming  through  the  closed  curtains  reveals  that  face,  which  a 
crown  could  not  adorn,  nor  the  title  of  King  ennoble.  It  is  the  face  of 
Washington,  revealing  in  every  calm,  fixed  outline,  a  heart  too  high  for  the 
emoty  bauble  of  a  crown,  a  soul  too  pure  for  the  anointed  disgrace  of  Royal 
Power.  He  is  very  calm,  but  still  you  can  trace  upon  his  countenance  a 
look  of  deep,  aye,  poignant  regret. 


THE   DISGRACE    OF    ARNOLD.  195 

His  eye  is  fixed  upon  the  figure  opposite. 

Standing  with  his  back  to  the  window,  a  man  of  some  thirty-nine  years, 
vigorous  in  each  muscular  limb,  majestic  in  his  breadth  of  chest,  and  in  the 
erect  bearing  of  his  neck  and  head,  rests  one  hand  upon  the  table  and  gazes 
upon  Washington  with  a  settled  look.  His  brow  is  bathed  in  the  light  of 
the  hearth.  Do  you  see  the  red  glare  that  flashes  over  each  rigid  feature  ? 
Does  it  not  impart  to  that  bold  brow  and  firm  lips  and  massive  chin,  an  ex 
pression  almost — supernatural  ? 

As  he  stands  there,  you  see  him  move  one  foot  uneasily.  The  limb 
broken  once  at  Quebec,  shattered  once  at  Saratoga  pains  him.  That  of 
course,  is  Arnold. 

You  hear  the  words  of  the  Reprimand  pass  from  the  lips  of  Washington. 
You  listen  with  painful  intensity.  Not  a  whisper  in  this  thronged  room, 
scarcely  a  breath  !  You  hear  the  flame  crackle,  and  the  crumbling  wood 
fall  in  hot  coals  along  the  hearth. 

Arnold  hears  it,  all — every  word  of  that  solemn  Reprimand. 

Does  his  cheek  blench  ?  His  eye  change  its  fixed  glance  ?  His  lip 
quiver?  No  !  As  those  words  fall  from  the  lips  of  Washington,  he  merely 
suffers  his  head  to  droop  slowly  downward,  until  his  eyes  seem  glaring 
upward,  from  compressrd  brows.  But  the  light  of  those  eyes  is  strange, 
yes, — vivid,  deadly. 

— Meanwhile,  looking  between  Washington  and  Arnold,  do  you  see  that 
figure,  resting  one  arm  upon  the  mantel-piece,  while  his  face  is  turned  away, 
and  his  eyes  seem  earnestly  perusing  the  hot  coals  of  the  fire  ?  That  is  a 
very  singular  face,  with  parchment  skin,  and  cold  stony  eyes,  and  thin, 
pinched  lips.  The  form — by  no  means  commanding,  or  peculiar,  either  for 
height  or  dignity — is  attired  in  the  glorious  blue  and  buff  uniform.  Who 
is  this  person  ? 

Behold  that  glance  of  Arnold,  shooting  its  scorn  from  the  woven  eye 
brows,  and  answer  the  question,  every  heart  for  itself.  That  glance  surveys 
the  figure  near  the  fire,  and  pours  a  volume  of  derision  in  a  single  look. 
Who  is  this  gentlemen  ?  Ask  the  Secret  records  of  the  Revolution,  and 
ask  quickly,  for  the  day  comes,  when  they  will  be  secret  no  longer. 

At  last  this  scene — which  saddens  you,  without  your  knowing  why — is 
over.  The  reprimand  is  spoken.  Arnold  raises  his  head,  surveys  the  whole 
company,  first,  Washington,  with  a  look  of  deep  respect,  then  the  warrior 
faces  of  his  brothers  in  arms,  and  last  of  all,  that  figure  by  the  firesiae. 

O,  the  withering  scorn  of  that  momentary  gaze  ! 

The  flame  light  falls  upon  Arnold's  brow,  and  reveals  him,  very  calm, 
somewhat  pale,  but  utterly  Resolved. 

So,  do  I  imagine  the  scene  of  the  Reprimand.  So,  taking  for 

granted,  that  his  enemies,  who  had  hunted  him  for  thirteen  months,  were 
present  at  the  scene  of  his  disgrace — do  I,  in  my  own  mind,  delineate  this 
picture  of  the  Past. — 


196  BENEDICT   ARNOLD 


XII.— ARNOLD    AT   LANDSDOWNB. 

AGED  persons,  survivors  of  the  Revolution,  have  told  me  singular  and  im 
pressive  stories  of  Arnold's  appearance  and  demeanor,  while  in  Philadelphia, 
after  tiiis  trial. 

He  wandered  from  place  to  place,  with  an  even  and  steady  gait,  neithei 
looking  to  one  side  nor  to  the  other,  scarcely  even  speaking  to  any  one, 
eillier  in  courtesy  or  in  anger,  but  preserving  a  settled  calm  of  look  and 
manner. 

And  when  the  Mob  stoned  him,  he  never  looked  back,  but  patiently  re 
ceived  their  missiles  in  his  face,  and  on  his  wounded  limb.  He  had  grown 
patient. 

They  tell  me,  that  his  features,  swarthy  and  battle-worn,  lost  every  trace 
of  vivacity  :  they  were  rigidly  fixed  ;  the  lips  compressed,  the  brow  calm 
and  unfrowning,  wore  an  expression  that  no  one  could  read,  while  his  eyes 
had  a  wildness  in  their  gleam,  a  fire  in  their  glance,  that  told  somewhat  of 
the  supernatural  struggle  at  work  within  him,  the  Battle  between  Arnold's 
Revenge  and  Arnold's  Pride. 

Who  shall  tell  the  horrors  of  that  mental  combat  ? 

At  this  time,  he  brings  to  mind  the  Hebrew  Giant,  Sampson.  Yes,  Ar 
nold  imagined  that  his  pursuers  had  put  out  the  eyes  of  his  honor,  and 
shorn  off'  the  locks  of  his  strength.  He  fancied  himself  brought  forth  before 
all  America,  to  make  sport  for  the  tricksters  and  trimmers,  in  Camp  and 
Congress — the  cowardly  Philistines  of  that  heroic  time. 

His  fall  had  been  determined  with  himself,  but  he  also,  resolved  that  the 
ruins  which  were  to  crush  him  should  neither  be  small  nor  insignificant. 
He  was  to  fall,  but  he  would  drag  down  the  temple  with  him. 

The  Ruin  should  be  great  and  everlasting.  He  would  carve  out  for  him 
self,  a  monument  of  eternal  infamy,  from  the  rock  of  his  patriot  greatness. 

Look  yonder,  my  friends,  into  the  retirement  of  Arnold's  home. 

Not  the  home  in  the  city,  amid  the  crowded  haunts  of  life,  but  this  man 
sion,  rising  from  the  summit  of  a  hill,  that  slopes  gently  away  for  a  mile, 
until  its  grassy  breast  melts  into  the  embrace  of  the  Schuylkill. 

It  is  almost  a  Palace,  this  beautiful  place  of  LANDSDOWNE,  which  once 
occupied  by  the  Penn  family,  is  now  the  retreat  of  Benedict  Arnold.  Here, 
amid  these  beautiful  woods,  he  hides  his  sorrow.  Here,  along  these  grav 
elled  walks,  beneath  the  shade  of  overhanging  trees,  he  paces  all  day  long. 
Sometimes  he  gazes  on  the  distant  rocks  of  Laurel  Hill.  Sometimes  he 
btrays  by  the  Schuylkill,  and  its  clear  waters  mirror  his  face,  lowering  with 
(earful  passions.  At  times,  secluding  himself  in  these  silent  chambers,  he 
utters  certain  words  in  a  low  voice. 

— Fancy  the  lion  of  the  forest,  captured,  tied,  his  limbs,  severed  one  by 
one,  and  you  have  the  case  of  Benedict  Arnold. — 


ARNOLD   AT    LANDriDOWNE.  197 

This  proud  mansion,  once  rung  with  the  clamor  of  a  Three  day's  festival 
It  was  when  Arnold,  recently  appointed  General  in  command  of  Philadel 
phia,  received  the  French  Minister,  Monsieur  Gerard.  For  three  days, 
liveries,  uniforms,  gold,  jewels  and  laces,  fluttered  and  shone,  over  the  wide 
sweep  of  this  beautiful  lawn.  The  wine  ran,  day  and  night,  free  as  the 
Schuylkill's  waves.  The  mansion,  luxuriously  furnished,  displayed  in  every 
room  the  gaiety  of  the  French  Court,  combined  with  the  glitter  and  show 
of  an  oriental  Divan.  Beneath  the  trees  banquets  were  spread ;  on  the 
river,  boats,  shapen  like  Venetian  gondolas,  glided  softly,  freighted  with  a 
precious  treasure  of  voluptuous  beauty. 

At  night,  the  wood  and  the  mansion,  and  the  river  broke  out,  all  at  once 
wiih  a  blaze  of  light.  It  was  like  a  scene  of  enchantment. 

\nd  amid  all  these  scenes,  one  Woman,  pre-eminently  beautiful,  glided 
along,  her  young  form,  swelling  in  every  vein,  with  a  sense  of  life,  her  eyes 
gleaming  passion,  pride,  fascination.  Her  long  hair  waved  to  her  half  bared 
bosom.  Her  small  foot,  encased  in  delicate  slipper,  bounded  in  the  dance 
like  a  feather  blown  by  a  gentle  wind,  so  light,  so  easy,  so  undulating. 
Every  eye  was  centred  on  her  form.  How  often  Arnold  would  stand  in  the 
shadow,  gazing  upon  her  as  she  went  to  and  fro,  and  thinking  that  all  this 
treasure  of  warm  loveliness,  this  world  of  enticing  beauty,  was  his  own  ! 
His  wife,  his  newly-married  Bride  ! 

— But  those  glorious  days  were  now  changed.  The  guests  were  gone  ; 
long  since  gone.  Gone  the  honor,  the  gold,  the  friends.  Then,  the  cele 
brated  Arnold,  sui  rounded  by  parasites;  now  the  disgraced  Arnold,  living 
alone  in  these  shades,  in  company  with  his  wife. 

It  is  of  that  wife  and  of  her  influence  that  I  would  speak. — Do  you  see 
that  lovely  woman,  clinging  to  the  breast  of  the  stern-browed  warrior  ?  It 
is  the  evening  hour.  Through  the  window  pours  the  red  flush  of  sunset,  bath 
ing  both  forms  in  rosy  light.  Those  tresses  fall  over  her  white  shoulders, 
and  along  the  manly  arms  which  gird  her  to  his  heart. 

Do  you  think  he  loves  her  ?     Look  at  his  eye,  blazing  from  the  shadow 
of  his  brow  ;  that  glance  surveys  her  form,  and  o-nthers  a  softened  fire  from 
her  look.     And  she  rests  in  his  arms,  just  as  you  have  seen  a  solitary  whit 
lily  repose   on   the   bosom  of  a  broad   green   leaf,  which   the  waves  urged 
gently  to  and  fro. 

She  is  indeed  a  beautiful  woman — but  listen  ?  What  words  are  theset 
that  she  whispers  in  his  ear  ? 

Does  she  tell  him  how  much  nobler  will  be  Arnold  the  Patriot,  enshrined 
in  the  hearts  of  his  countrymen,  than  Arnold  the  Courtier,  dancing  atten 
dance  in  the  ante-chamber  of  King  George  ? 

Does  she — following  the  example  of  many  an  humble  country-woman, 
^lad  not  like  her,  in  satins  and  gold,  but  in  plain  homespun — place  in  her 
Husband's  hand,  the  patriot's  sword  ?  Do  those  mild  blue  eyes,  looking 


198  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

up  into  his  stern  face,  gleam  with  the  holy  flame  of  patriotism  or  with  a 
base  love  for  the  baubles  of  a  Court  ? 

Let  History  answer. 

1  make  no  charge  against  the  wife  of  Arnold.  May  the  sod  lay  lightly 
on  her  beautiful  frame,  which  has  long  since  mouldered  into  dust.  Peace 
to  her  ashes — if  we  invoke  her  memory,  it  is  only  for  the  sake  of  the  terri 
ble  lesson  which  it  teaches. 

Had  she,  instead  of  a  King-worshipper,  a  lover  of  titles  and  courts  and 
shows,  been  a  Hero-woman,  Arnold  might  have  been  saved.  But  he  loved 
her.  She  clung  to  him  in  his  disgrace.  When  the  world  frowned,  her 
bosom  received  his  burning  brow,  and  pillowed  his  torn  heart.  She  was 
with  him  in  his  loneliness.  Was  it  strange,  that  her  voice  whispering  to 
him  at  all  hours,  should  sway  his  soul  with  a  powerful,  nay,  an  irresistable 
influence  ? 

Imagine  him  neglected  by  Congress,  disgraced  in  the  camp,  pelted  in  the 
streets,  striding  to  his  home,  his  heart  beating  against  his  breast,  like  a  lion 
in  its  cage.  There,  in  his  Home,  a  beautiful  girl  welcomes  him.  She,  at 
least,  is  true.  She  may  have  married  him  because  he  was  so  renowned, 
because  he  bore  his  honors  with  so  proud  a  grace,  but  now,  she  is  Home, 
Friend,  World  to  him. 

— That  single  fact  should  make  the  flowers  grow  more  beautifully  above 
her  grave. — 

She  is  ambitious.  Perchance,  when  sleeping  on  his  breast,  she  dreams 
of  a  royal  court,  and  there,  attired  in  coronet  and  star,  she  beholds, — EARL 
ARNOLD  !  Then  when  she  wakes,  bending  her  lips  to  his  ear,  she  whispers 
her  dream,  and  not  only  a  dream,  but  lays  the  plan  of — Treason.  Is  it 
improbable  that  Arnold  was  fatally  swayed  by  the  words  of  this  bewitching 
wife  ? 

Again  I  repeat,  had  this  wife,  instead  of  a  lover  of  courts  and  pomps  and 
names,  been  a  Hero-Woman,  her  heart  true  to  the  cause  of  freedom,  her 
soul  beating  warmly  for  Washington  and  his  cause,  there  would  never  have 
been  written,  on  the  adamantine  column  which  towers  from  history — dedi 
cated  to  the  memory  of  Infamous  Men the  name  of— BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 

Let  Woman  learn  this  lesson,  and  get  it  by  heart. 

The  influence  of  his  wife  was  one  of  the  main  causes  of  Arnold's 
treason. 

A  terrible  lesson,  to  be  remembered  and  told  again,  when  this  hand  is  dust ! 

How  did  she  influence  his  life  ?  By  forcing  herself  into  the  rostrum  or 
the  pulpit  ?  By  sharing  in  the  debates  of  the  Congress,  the  broils  of  the 
camp  ?  No  ?  These  women  who  write  big  books  and  mount  high  pulpits, 
talking  theology  and  science  by  the  hour,  never  influence  anybody.  They 
are  admired  for  the  same  reason  that  the  mob  rushes  to  see  a  Mermaid  or 
link  from  the  Sea  Serpent's  tail.  Not  on  account  of  the  usefulness,  but 
merely  foi  the  curiosity  of  the  thing ;  for  the  sake  of  the  show 


ARNOLD,  THE  TRAITOR.  199 

It  was  in  the  Home,  at  the  Fireside,  that  the  wife  of  Arnold  exercised 
her  bewitching  and  fatal  power ! 

And,  O,  let  the  Woman  of  our  country,  unheeding  the  silly  philanthropy 
which  would  force  her  into  the  pulpit,  or  the  rostrum,  into  the  clamor  of 
wordy  debates,  or  the  broils  of  political  life,  remember  this  great  truth  : 
Her  influence  is  by  the  Fireside.  Her  world  is  Home.  By  the  light  of 
that  Fireside,  she  stands  a  Queen  upon  her  Throne.  From  that  Throne, 
she  can  mould  man  to  good  or  evil — from  the  Sanctity  of  her  home,  she 
can  rule  the  world. 

— Let  us  now,  in  one  historical  picture,  condense  three  important  points 
of  Arnold's  career. — 

XII.— ARNOLD,   THE    TRAITOR. 

THERE  was  a  night,  when  an  awful  agony  was  passing  in  the  breast  of 
Arnold  ;  the  struggle  between  Arnold's  revenge  and  Arnold's  pride. 

You  have  all  seen  that  old  house,  in  Second  near  Walnut  street,  which 
once  the  Home  of  William  Penn,  once  the  Palace  of  Benedict  Arnold,  is 
now  used  as  a  manufactory  of  Venus  De  Medicis,  and  sugar  candies.  That 
old  house,  picturesque  in  ruins,  with  battlemented  walls  and  deep-gabled 
roofs  ? 

One  night  a  gorgeously  furnished  chamber,  in  that  mansion,  was  illumi 
nated  by  the  glare  of  a  bright  wood  fire.  And  there,  with  his  back  to  that 
fire, — there,  looking  out  upon  the  western  sky,  gleaming  in  deep  starlight, 
stood  Benedict  Arnold.  One  hand  was  laid  upon  his  breast,  which  throbbed 
in  long  deep  gasps  ;  the  other  held  two  letters. 

Read  the  superscription  of  those  letters,  by  the  light  of  the  stars  ;  one  is 
directed  to  General  Washington,  the  other  to  Sir  Henry  Clinton.  One  an 
nounces  his  acceptance  of  the  command  of  West  Point,  the  other  offers  to 
sell  West  Point  to  the  British. 

And  now  look  at  that  massive  face,  quivering  with  revenge,  pride  and 
patriotism  ;  look  at  that  dark  eye,  gleaming  with  the  horror  of  a  lost  soul ; 
look  at  that  bared  throat  with  the  veins  swelling  like  cords  ! 

That  is  the  struggle  between  Arnold  the  Patriot,  and  Arnold  the  Traitor. 

And  there,  far  back  in  the  room,  half  hidden  among  silken  curtains,  silent 
and  thoughtful,  sits  a  lovely  woman,  her  hands  clasped,  her  unbound  hair 
showering  down  over  her  shoulders,  her  large  blue  eyes  glaring  wildly  upon 
the  fire !  Well  may  that  bosom  heave,  that  eye  glare  !  For  now  the  wife 
of  Arnold  is  waiting  for  the  determination  of  her  husband's  fate ;  now,  the 
darkest  shadow  is  passing  over  the  Dial-plate  of  his  destiny. 

While  Arnold  stands  brooding  there,  while  his  wife  sits  trembling  by  the 
fire — without,  in  the  ante-chamber,  three  persons  wait  for  him. 

One  is  a  base-browed  man  clad  in  the  blue  uniform  of  the  Continentals 


200  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

Turn  that  uniform  and  it  is  scarlet.  That  is  a  British  Spy.  He  is  waiting 
to  bear  the  letter  to  Sir  Henry  Clinton. 

That  handsome  cavalier,  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  fashLm,  with  em 
broidered  coat,  red  heeled  shoes  and  powdered  hair,  is  a  nobleman  of 
France ;  the  Ambassador  of  the  French  King,  the  Chevalier  De  Luzerne. 
He  has  come  here  to  listen  to  the  offer  of  Arnold,  who  wishes  to  enter  the 
service  of  the  French  King. 

The  third — look  !  A  silent  and  moody  red-man  of  the  forest ;  an  Indian 
chief ;  wrapped  up  in  his  blanket,  standing  there,  proud  as  a  king  on  his 
throne. 

He  has  come  from  the  wilds  of  the  forest  in  the  far  northwest,  to  hearken 
to  the  answer  of  Arnold  (the  DEATH  EAGLE,  as  the  Indians  call  him,)  to 
their  proposition,  by  which  they  agree  to  make  him  chief  of  their  tribes. 

Now  look  :  the  door  opens ;  the  three  enter ;  Arnold  turns  and  beholds 
them. 

Then  occurs  a  hurried  and  a  deeply-interesting  scene. 

While  the  wife  of  Arnold  sits  trembling  by  the  fire,  he  advances,  and 
greets  the  Chevalier  De  Luzerne  : 

"  Look  ye,"  he  mutters  in  quick  tones,  "  Your  king  can  have  my  sword, 
but  mark  !  I  am  in  debt ;  the  mob  hoot  me  in  the  streets  ;  my  creditors  are 
clamorous.  I  must  have  money  !" 

This  bold  tone  of  one  used  to  command,  little  suits  the  polite  Ambassador. 

44  My  King  never  buys  soldiers  !"  he  whispers  with  a  sneer,  and  then 
bowing,  politely  retires. 

Stung  to  the  quick  with  this  cool  insult,  Arnold — turning  his  eyes  awaj 
from  the  British  Spy — salutes  the  Indian  chief — hark  !  They  converse  in 
the  wild,  musical  Indian  tongue. 

44  My  brothers  are  willing  to  own  the  Death  Eagle  as  their  chief,"  ex 
claims  the  Indian.  "  Yet  are  they  afraid,  that  he  loves  the  pale  faces  too 
well " 

44  Try  my  love  for  the  pale  faces," — mutters  Arnold  with  a  look  and  ? 
sneer  that  makes  even  the  red  Indian  start. 

The  chief  resumes  :  44  My  brothers  who  are  many — their  numbers  are  as 
the  leaves  of  the  forest — my  brothers  who  sharpen  their  war-hatchets  for 
the  scalp  of  the  pale-face,  will  ask  the  Death  Eagle  to  lead  them  on  the 
towns  of  the  pale-face ;  to  burn,  to  kill,  till  not  a  single  pale-face  is  left  in 
the  land." 

44  TRY  ME  !"  was  the  hoarse  response  of  Arnold,  given  with  knit  brows, 
and  clenched  hands. 

44  Then  shall  the  Death  Eagle  become  the  chief  of  the  red  men" — said 
the  Indian — 44  But  his  pale  face  squaw  there  !  He  must  leave  her ;  she  can 
never  dwell  in  the  tents  of  the  red  men." 

Then  it  was  that  Arnold— who  had  embraced  with  a  gleam  of  savage  de- 


ARNOLD,   THE   TRAITOR.  201 

light,  the  proposition,  to  become  the  chief  of  a  murderous  tribe  of  wild  In 
dians — felt  his  heart  grow  cold  ! 

Ah  1  how  he  loved  that  wife  ! 

Arnold  who  in  his  mad  revenge,  was  willing  to  sweep  the  towns  of  the 
whites  with  torch  and  knife,  quailed  at  the  idea  of  leaving  that  fair  young 
wife. 

"  The  Death  Eagle  cannot  be  your  chief!"  he  said  as  he  turned  from  the 
Indian.  The  red  man  went  from  the  room  with  a  sneer  on  his  dark  face, 
for  the  man  who  could  not  sacrifice  his  wife — the  loved  one  of  his  heart — 
to  that  revenge,  which  was  about  to  stamp  his  name  with  eternal  scorn. 

*  Now  take  this  letter  to  Sir  Henry  Clinton  !"  gasped  Arnold,  placing 
the  fatal  letter  in  the  hands  of  the  British  Spy.  And  then  Arnold  and  his 
wife  were  alone. 

Then  that  wife — gazing  on  the  noble  countenance  of  her  husband,  now 
livid  as  ashes, — gazing  in  that  dark  eye,  now  wild  and  rolling  in  its  glance, 
— gazing  on  that  white  lip,  that  quivered  like  a  dry  leaf — then  that  wife  of 
Arnold  trembled  as  she  felt  that  the  dread  Rubicon  was  passed,  that  Arnold, 
the  Patriot,  dead,  she  sat  in  the  presence  of  ARNOLD,  THE  TRAITOR. 

XIV.-THE    FALL    OF   LUCIFER. 

How  often  in  the  lower  world,  does  the  tragedy  of  life,  walk  side  by  side 
with  the  Common-place  ! 

A  dark  cavern,  where  no  light  shines,  save  the  taper  flashing  from  the 
eyes  of  hollow  skull — a  lonely  waste  where  rude  granite  rocks  tossed  in 
fantastic  forms,  deepen  the  midnight  horror  of  the  hour — the  crash  of  battle, 
where  ten  thousand  living  men  in  one  moment,  are  crushed  into  clay — such 
are  the  scenes  which  the  Romancer  chooses  for  the  illustration  of  his  Trage 
dy,  the  Historian  for  his  storied  page,  every  line  full  of  breathing  interest 
and  life. 

But  that  the  development  of  a  horrible  tragedy,  should  be  enacted  amid 
the  familiar  scenes  of  Home  ?  What  is  more  common,  what  appears  more 
natural  ? 

That  the  awful  tragedy  of  Arnold's  treason,  should  find  its  development 
at  a — Breakfast-table  ! — Does  it  not  make  you  laugh  ? 

TREASON  comes  to  us  in  history,  hooded  in  a  cowl,  dagger  in  hand,  the 
dim  light  of  a  taper  trembling  over  its  pallid  skull.  But  TREASON  calmly 
sitting  down  to  a  quiet  breakfast,  the  pleasant  smile  upon  his  face,  hiding 
the  canker  of  his  heart,  the  coffee — that  fragrant  intensifier  of  the  brain — 
smoking  like  sweet  incense,  as  it  imparts  its  magnetism  from  the  lip  to  the 
soul — Treason  with  a  wife  on  one  side,  a  baby  laughing  on  his  knee  ! 
T)pes  it  not  seem  to  mingle  the  ridiculous  with  the  sublime,  or  worse,  the 
dull  Common-place  with  the  Demoniac  ? 

And  yet,  there  is  nothing  under  Heaven  more  terribly  true  f     Search 

13 


802  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

history,  and  you  will  find  a  thousand  instances,  where  the  most  terrible 
events— things  that  your  blood  congeals  but  to  read — were  mingled  with 
the  dullest  facts  of  every-day  life. 

— While  the  head  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  falls  bleeding  on  the  sawdust 
of  the  scaffold,  every  vein  of  that  white  neck,  which  Kings  had  deemed  it 
Paradise  to  touch,  pouring  forth  its  separate  stream  of  blood,  in  yonder 
chamber  Queen  Elizabeth,  the  sweet  Jezebel  of  the  English  throne,  is 
adding  another  tint  to  the  red  paint  on  her  cheek,  and  breaking  her  looking 
glass,  because  it  cannot  make  her  beautiful ! 

Napoleon,  flying  from  the  field  of  Waterloo,  where  he  had  lost  a  World, 
pauses  in  his  flight  to  drink  some  miserable  soup,  made  by  a  peasant,  in  the 
hollow  of  a  battered  helmet ! 

General  Nash,  riding  to  the  bloody  surprise  of  Germantown,  from  which 
he  was  to  come  back  a  mangled  corse,  turns  to  Washington,  and  gravely 
apologizes  for  the  absence  of  powder  from  his  hair,  cambric  ruffles  from 
his  wrists  ! 

We  might  multiply  our  illustrations  of  the  fact,  by  a  thousand  other 
instances. 

Yet  among  them  all,  that  Development  of  Arnold's  Treason,  which  took 
place  at  a  Breakfast-table,  has  ever  seemed  to  us  most  terrible 

Yonder  in  Robinson's  House,  which  you  behold  among  the  trees,  on  the 
sublime  heights  of  the  Hudson,  opposite  the  cliffs  of  West  Point,  the  Break 
fast-party  are  assembled. 

The  blessed  sunshine  of  an  autumnal  morning,  which  turns  the  Hudson's 
waves  to  molten  gold,  and  lights  the  rugged  rocks  of  West  Point  with  a 
smile  of  glory,  also  shines  through  these  windows,  and  reveals  the  equip 
age  of  the  breakfast-table,  the  faces  of  the  guests. 

Why  need  I  tell  you  of  the  antique  furniture  of  that  comfortable  room,  or 
describe  the  white  cloth,  the  cups  of  transparent  porcelain,  or  the  cumbrously 
carved  coffee  urn,  fashioned  of  solid  silver  ?  These  things  are  very  com 
mon-place,  and  yet  even  the  coffee  urn  becomes  somewhat  interesting,  when 
we  remember  that  its  polished  silver  reflects  the  bronzed  features  of  a 
TRAITOR  ? 

That  traitor  sits  near  the  head  of  the  table,  his  imposing  form  attired  in  a 
blue  coat,  glittering  with  buttons  and  epaulettes  of  gold,  a  buff  vest,  ruffles, 
and  neckcloth  of  cambric.  That  face  whose  massive  features  have  glowed 
with  demoniac  passions,  is  now  calm  as  marble.  The  hand  which  has 
grasped  the  Sword  of  Quebec  and  Saratoga,  now  lifts  a  porcelain  cup.  And 
yet  looking  very  closely  you  may  see  the  hand  tremble,  the  features 
shadowed  by  a  gloom,  not  the  less  impressive,  because  it  is  almost  im 
perceptible. 

Near  the  General  are  seated  two  young  officers,  his  aids-de-camp,  whose 


THE   FALL    OF   LUCIFER.  203 

•lerder  form  do  not  conceal  a  coward   thought.     Their  eyes  wander  from 
the  form  of  the  General,  to  the  figure  by  his  side.^ 

That  figure,  the  most  beautiful  thing  out  of  Paradise — a  young  wife,  with 
a  biby  nestling  on  her  bosom  ! 

At  the  head  of  the  table  she  is  seen  ;  her  form  now  ripened  into  its  per 
fect  bloom,  negligently  attired  in  a  loose  robe,  whose  careless  folds  cannot 
hide  the  whiteness  of  her  neck,  or  the  faultless  contour  of  that  half-bared  arm. 

And  the  child  that  sleeps  upon  her  full  bosom,  its  tiny  hands  wound 
among  the  tresses  of  her  golden  hair,  is  very  beautiful.  The  Darkness  of 
its  Father's  Crime,  has  not  yet  shadowed  its  cherub  face. 

Arnold  is  silent.  Ever  and  again  from  the  shadows  of  his  deep  drawn 
brows,  he  gazes  upon  her,  his  wife  !  Upon  the  burden  of  her  breast,  that 
smiling  child. 

How  much  has  he  risked  for  them  ! 

Her  eye  of  deep  melting  blue,  first  trembles  over  the  face  of  the  infant, 
and  then  surveys  her  husband's  visage.  O,  the  fearful  anxiety  of  that  mo 
mentary  gaze  !  Does  she  fear  for  the  future  of  her  babe  ?  Shall  he  be  the 
heir  of  Arnold  the  Earl  ?  Does  she  the  child  of  wealth  and  luxury,  lapped  from 
her  birth  in  soft  attire,  for  a  moment  fancy  that  Arnold  himself,  was  once  a 
friendless  babe,  pressed  to  the  agonized  bosom  of  a  poor  and  pious  woman  ? 
— Ere  we  listen  to  the  conversation  of  the  Breakfast-table,  let  us  approach 
these  windows,  and  behold  the  scene  without. 

Not  upon  the  beautiful  river,  nor  the  far  extending  mountains,  will  we 
gaze.  No  !  There  are  certain  sights  which  at  once  strike  our  eye. 

A  warrior's  horse  stands  saddled  by  the  door. 

Yonder  far  down  the  river,  the  British  Flag  streams  from  the  British 
Ship,  Vulture.  To  the  north-west,  we  behold  the  rocks  and  cliffs  of  West 
Point. 

Let  us  traverse  this  northern  road,  until  having  passed  many  a  quiet  nook 
we  stand  upon  the  point,  where  a  narrow  path  descends  to  the  river. 

From  the  green  trees,  a  brilliant  cavalcade  bursts  into  view  Yonder 
rock  arises  from  the  red  earth  of  the  road,  overshadowed  by  a  clump  of 
chesnut  trees.  A  General  and  his  retinue  mounted  on  gallant  steeds  come 
swiftly  on,  their  uniforms  glittering,  their  plumes  waving  in  the  light. 

It  is  WASHINGTON,  attended  by  La  Fayette  and  Knox,  with  the  other 
heroes  of  his  band.  In  this  gallant  company,  need  you  ask  which  is  the 
form  of  the  American  Chief? 

He  rides  at  the  head  of  his  Generals,  his  chivalric  face  glowing  with  the 
freshness  of  the  morning  air.  By  his  side  a  slender  youth  with  a  high  fore 
head  and  red  hair — La  Fayette  !  Then  a  bluff  General,  with  somewhat 
corpulent  form  and  round  good-humored  face — General  Knox.  A.nd  on  the 
right  hand  of  Washington,  mounted  on  a  splendid  black  horse,  whose  dark 
Sides  are  whitened  by  snowy  flakes  of  foam,  rides  a  young  man,  not  re 
m&rkable  for  heighth  or  majesty  of  figure,  but  his  bold  high  forehead  awes 


804  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

his  deep-set  eyes,  flashing  with  genius,  win  and  enchain  you.  It  is  young 
Alexander  Hamilton. 

As  we  look  at  this  gallant  cavalcade,  so  gloriously  bursting  into  view 
from  the  shadows  of  these  green  trees,  let  us  listen  to  La  Fayette,  who 
gently  lays  his  hand  on  the  arm  of  Washington. 

— «*  General,  you  are  taking  the  wrong  way,"  he  says,  in  his  broken  accent 
— "  That  path  leads  us  to  the  river.  This  is  the  road  to  Robinson's 
House.  You  know  we  are  engaged  to  breakfast  at  General  Arnold's  head 
quarters  ?" 

A  cheerful  smile  overspread  Washington's  face — 

"  Ah,  I  see  how  it  is  !"  he  said,  alternately  surveying  La  Fayette  and 
Hamilton — "  You  young  men,  ha,  ha  !  are  all  in  love  with  Mrs.  Arnold,  and 
wish  to  get  where  she  is,  as  soon  as  possible.  You  may  go  and  take 
breakfast  with  her,  and  tell  her  not  to  wait  for  me.  I  must  ride  down  and 
examine  the  redoubts  on  this  side  of  the  river,  and  will  be  there  in  a  short 
time !" 

The  officers  however,  refuse  to  take  advantage  of  their  General's  kind 
permission.  Two  aids-de-camp  are  sent  forward  to  announce  Washington's 
return  from  Hartford,  where  he  had  been  absent  for  some  days,  on  a  visit 
to  Count  De  Rochambeau. — In  the  meantime,  the  Chief  and  his  retinue 
disappear  in  the  shadows  of  the  narrow  path  leading  to  the  river. 


The  aids-de-camp  arrive,  announce  the  return  of  Washington,  and  take 
their  seats  beside  Mrs.  Arnold,  at  the  breakfast-table. 

"  The  General  is  well  ?"  asked  that  beautiful  woman,  with  a  smile  that 
revealed  the  ivory  whiteness  of  her  teeth. 

"  Never  in  better  spirits  in  his  life.  Our  visit  to  Hartford,  was  a  re 
markably  pleasant  one — By  the  bye,  General," — turning  abruptly  to  Arnold 
— "  What  think  you  of  the  rumor  now  afloat,  in  reference  to  West  Point?" 

The  porcelain  cup,  about  to  touch  Arnold's  lip,  was  suddenly  stopped  in 
its  progress.  As  the  sunlight  pours  in  uncertain  gleams  over  his  forehead, 
you  can  see  a  strange  gloom  overshadow  his  face. 

"  Rumor?     West  Point  ?"  he  echoed  in  his  deep  voice. 

"  Yes — "  hesitated  the  aid-de-camp — "  On  our  way  home,  we  heard 
something  of  an  intended  attack  on  West  Point,  by  Sir  Henry  Clinton—" 

The  smile  that  came  over  Arnold's  face,  was  remembered  for  many  a 
day,  by  those  who  saw  it. 

"  Pshaw  !  What  nonsense  !  These  floating  rumors  are  utterly  ridicu- 
'ous  !  Sir  Henry  Clinton  meditate  an  attack  on  West  Point  ?  He  may  b« 
#eak,  or  crazy,  but  not  altogether  so  mad  as  that !" 

The  General  sipped  his  coffee,  and  the  conversation  took  another  turn. 

The  latest  fashion  of  a  lady's  dress — whether  the  ponderous  head-gear 
jf  tnat  'ime,  would  be  succeeded  by  a  plainer  style — the  amusements  of 


THE   PALL    OF    LUCIFER.  205 

the  British  in  New  York,  their  balls,  banquets  and  gala  days — sucn  were 
the  subjects  of  conversation. 

Never  had  the  wife  of  Arnold  appeared  so  beautiful.  Her  eyes  ocannng 
n  liquid  light,  her  white  hand  and  arm  moving  in  graceful  gesture,  her  hair 
now  floating  gently  over  her  cheek,  now  waving  back  in  all  its  glossy  love 
liness,  from  her  stainless  neck  her  bosom  heaving  softly  beneath  its  beloved 
burden,  that  peerless  woman  gave  utterance  to  all  the  treasures  of  her  mu 
sical  voice,  her  bold  and  vivacious  intellect. 

Arnold  was  silent  all  the  while. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs — the  door  flung  rudely  open — a 
soldier  appears,  covered  from  head  to  foot  with  dust  and  mud,  and  holding 
a  letter  in  his  hand. 

"  Whence  come  you  ?"  said  Arnold,  quietly  sipping  his  coffee,  while  his 
eye  assumed  a  deeper  light,  and  the  muscles  of  his  face  suddenly  contracted, 
— "  From  whom  is  that  letter?" 

"  I  came  from  North  Castle— that  letter 's  from  Colonel  Jamison." — The 
Messenger  sank  heavily  in  a  chair,  as  though  tired  almost  to  death. 

Arnold  took  the  letter,  broke  the  seal,  and  calmly  read  it.  Calmly,  al 
though  every  word  was  fire,  although  the  truth  which  it  contained,  was 
like  a  voice  from  the  grave,  denouncing  eternal  woe  upon  his  head. 

You  can  see  the  wife  centre  her  anxious  gaze  upon  his  face.  Still  he  is 
calm.  There  is  one  deep  respiration  heaving  his  broad  chest,  beneath  his 
General's  uniform,  one  dark  shadow  upon  his  face. — as  terrible  as  it  is 
brief — and  then,  arising  with  composed  dignity,  he  announces,  that  sudden 
intelligence  required  his  immediate  attendance  at  West  Point. 

"  Tell  General  Washington  when  he  arrives,  that  I  am  unexpectedly 
called  to  West  Point,  but  will  return  very  soon." 

He  left  the  room. 

In  an  instant  a  servant  in  livery  entered,  and  whispered  in  Mrs.  Arnold's 
ear — "  The  General  desires  to  see  you,  in  your  chamber." 

She  rose,  with  her  babe  upon  her  bosom,  she  slowly  passed  from  the 
room.  Slowly,  for  her  knees  bent  beneath  her,  and  the  heart  within  her 
bieast  contracted,  as  though  crushed  by  a  vice.  Now  on  the  wide  stairway, 
she  toils  towards  her  chamber,  her  face  glowing  no  longer  with  roses,  but 
pale  as  death,  her  fingers  convulsively  clutching  her  child. 

O,  how  that  simple  message  thrills  her  blood !  "  The  General  desires 
to  see  you,  in  your  chamber  !" 

She  stands  before  the  door,  afraid  to  enter.  She  hears  her  husband  pace 
the  room  with  heavy  strides.  At  last  gathering  courage,  she  enters. 

Arnold  stands  by  the  window,  with  the  morning  light  upon  his  brow. 
From  a  face,  darkened  by  all  the  passions  of  a  fiend,  two  burning  eyes, 
deep  set,  beneath  overhanging  brows,  glare  in  her  face. 

She  totters  towards  him. 

For  a  moment  he  gazes  upon  her  in  silence. 


208  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

She  does  not  breathe  a  word,  but  trembling  to  him,  as  though  unconscious 
of  the  action,  lifts  her  babe  before  his  eyes. 

"  Wife — "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  that  was  torn  from  his  very  heaii — 
"  All  is  lost !" 

He  flung  his  manly  arms  about  her  form — one  pressure  of  his  bosom, 
one  kiss  upon  her  lips — he  seizes  the  babe,  kisses  it  with  wild  frenzy,  flings 
it  upon  the  bed,  and  rushes  from  the  room. 

Then  the  wife  of  Arnold  spread  forth  her  arms,  as  though  she  stood  on 
the  verge  of  an  awful  abyss,  and  with  her  eyes  swimming  in  wild  light,  fell 
heavily  to  the  floor. 

She  laid  there,  motionless  as  death ;  the  last  fierce  pulsation  which 
swelled  from  her  heart,  had  burst  the  fastening  of  her  robe,  and  her  white 
bosom  gleamed  like  cold  marble,  in  the  morning  light. 

Arnold  hurries  down  the  stairs,  passes  through  the  drawing  room,  mounts 
the  saddled  horse  at  the  door,  and  dashes  toward  the  river. 

Awaking  from  her  swoon,  after  the  lapse  of  many  minutes,  the  wife 
arises,  seeks  her  babe  again.  Still  it  sleeps  !  What  knows  it,  the  sinless 
child,  of  the  fearful  Tragedy  of  that  hour  ?  The  Mother  passes  her  hand 
over  her  brow,  now  hot  as  molten  lead  ;  she  endeavors  to  recal  the  memory 
of  that  scene  !  All  is  dim,  confused,  dark,  She  approaches  the  window. 
Far  down  the  river,  the  British  Flag  floating  from  the  Vulture,  waves  in 
the  light. 

There  is  a  barge  upon  the  waters,  propelled  by  the  steady  arms  of  six 
oarsmen.  How  beautifully  it  glides  along,  now  in  the  shadow  of  the  moun 
tains,  now  over  the  sunshiny  waves  !  In  the  stern  stands  a  figure,  holding 
a  white  flag  above  his  head.  Yes,  as  the  boat  moves  toward  the  British 
ship,  the  white  flag  defends  it  from  the  fire  of  American  cannon,  at  Ver- 
planck's  point.  As  you  look  the  barge  glides  on,  it  passes  the  point,  it 
nears  the  Vulture,  while  the  ripples  break  around  its  prow. 

Did  the  eye  of  the  wife  once  wander  from  that  erect  figure  in  the  stern  ? 

Ah,  far  over  the  waters,  she  gazes  on  that  figure ;  she  cannot  distinguish 
the  features  of  that  distant  face,  but  her  heart  tells  her  that  it  is — ARNOLD  ! 

— In  the  history  of  ages,  I  know  no  picture  so  full  of  interest,  as  this — 

The  Wife  of  Arnold,  gazing  from  the  window  of  her  home,  upon  the 
barge,  which  bears  her  Husband  to  the  shelter  of  the  British  flag  ! 


It  was  now  ten  o'clock,  on  the  morning  of  the  25th  of  September,  1780. 

Soon  Washington  approached  Robinson's  house,  and  sat  down  with 
Hamilton  and  La  Fayette,  to  the  Breakfast  table.  He  was  told  that  Arnold 
had  been  called  suddenly  to  West  Point.  After  a  hurried  breakfast,  he 
resolved  to  cross  the  river,  and  meet  his  General  at  the  fortress.  After 
this  interview  it  was  his  purpose  to  return  to  dinner.  Leaving  Hamilton 
at  the  house,  he  hastened  to  the  river. 


THE   FALL    OF    LUCIFER.  207 

In  a  few  moments  the  barge  rippled  gently  over  the  waves.  Washington 
gazed  upon  the  sublime  cliffs  all  around  him,  upon  the  smooth  expanse  of 
water,  which  rested  like  a  mirror,  in  its  mountain  frame,  and  then  gaily 
exclaimed  : 

"  I  am  glad  that  General  Arnold  has  preceded  us.  He  will  receive  us 
with  a  salute.  The  roar  of  cannon  is  always  delightful,  but  never  so  grand 
as  when  it  is  re-echoed  among  the  gorges  of  these  mountains." 

The  boat  glided  on  toward  the  opposite  shore.  No  sound  of  cannon 
awoke  the  silence  of  the  hills.  Doubtles,  Arnold  was  preparing  some  plea 
sant  surprise.  Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  beach  glided  the  barge.  Still  no 
salute. 

"  What !"  exclaimed  Washington — "  Do  they  not  intend  to  salute  us  ?" 

As  the  barge  grated  on  the  yellow  sand,  an  officer  in  the  Continental 
uniform,  was  seen  on  the  rocks  above  : 

He  was  not  prepared  for  the  reception  of  such  visitors,  and  hoped  that  he 
would  be  excused  for  any  apparent  neglect,  in  not  having  placed  the  garrison 
in  proper  condition  for  a  military  inspection  and  review. 

"  What  ?  Is  Arnold  not  here  ?"  exclaimed  Washington,  as  he  leaped 
upon  the  beach. 

"  He  has  not  been  here  within  two  days,  nor  have  I  heard  from  him 
within  that  time  !"  replied  the  officer. 

Washington  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  and  then  for  a  moment 
stood  wrapped  in  thought,  the  sheath  of  his  sword  sinking  in  the  sand  as  he 
unconsciously  pressed  his  hand  upon  the  hilt. 

Did  the  possibility  of  a  Treason,  so  dark  in  its  detail*,  so  tremendous  in 
its  general  outline,  burst  upon  him,  in  that  moment  of  thought? 

Soon  he  took  his  way  up  the  rocks,  and  followed  by  his  officers,  devoted 
some  three  hours  to  an  examination  of  the  works  of  West  Point. 

It  was  near  4  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  when  he  returned  to  Robinson's 
house. 

As  the  company  pursued  the  path  leading  from  the  river  to  the  house, 
an  officer  appeared,  his  countenance  stamped  with  deep  anxiety,  his  step 
quickened  into  irregular  footsteps.  There  was  an  unimaginable  horror 
written  on  his  face. 

That  officer  was  Alexander  Hamilton. 

As  Washington  paused  in  the  roadside,  he  approached  and  whispered  a 
few  words,  inaudible  to  the  rest  of  the  party. 

Neither  La  Fayette  or  Knox  heard  these  words,  but  they  saw  that  ex 
pression  of  horror  reflected  from  Hamilton's  visage  to  the  face  of  Washing 
ton,  and  felt  their  hearts  impressed  with  a  strange  awe.  As  a  dim,  vague 
ibrboding  thrilled  from  heart  to  heart,  the  party  approached  the  house. 

Washington  beckons  La  Fayette  and  Knox  to  his  side  : 

"  These  letters  and  papers,  despatched  to  me  two  days  since,  by  Colonel 
Jamison  of  North  Castle  reveal  a  strange  truth,  gentlemen. — We  journeyed 


.. 


308  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

to  Hartford  by  the  lower  road,  but  returned  by  the  upper.  Therefore,  the 
messenger  has  been  chasing  us  for  two  days,  and  the  information  has  not 
reached  me  until  this  morning. — The  truth  gentlemen,  is  plain — General 
Arnold  is  a  TRAITOR.  Adjutant  General  Andre — of  the  British  army — a 

—SPY  !" 

La  Fayette  sank  into  a  chair,  as  though  the  blood  had  forsaken  his  heart. 
Knox  uttered  an  involuntary  oath. 

Then  the  agony  which  was  silently  working  its  way  through  the  soul 
of  Washington — leaving  his  face  calm  as  marble — manifested  itself  in  these 
words  : 

"  Whom,"  he  whispered,  quietly  folding  the  papers, — «*  WHOM  CAN  WE 
TRUST  NOW  ?" 

Hamilton  immediately  started,  on  the  fleetest  horse,  for  Verplanck's, 
point  his  intention  being  to  intercept  the  Traitor.  He  returned  in  the  course 
of  an  hour,  not  with  the  Traitor,  but  with  a  letter  headed  "  His  Majesty's 
Ship,  Vulture,  Sept.  25,  1780,"  directed  to  Washington,  and  signed  •*  BENE 
DICT  ARNOLD." 

Meanwhile  a  strange,  aye,  we  may  well  say  it,  a  terrible  interview  took 
place  at  Robinson's  house. 

The  actors — Washington  and  the  wife  of  Arnold. 

The  General  ascended  the  stairs  leading  to  her  chamber.  He  was  met 
the  threshhold  by  a  strange  apparition.  A  beautiful  woman,  with  her 
dishevelled  hair  floating  over  her  bared  bosom,  her  dress  flowing  round  her 
form  in  disordered  folds,  her  white  arms  convulsively  clutching  her  fright 
ened  babe. 

The  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks. 

44  Do  not  harm  my  child  !"  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  brought  tears  to  the 
eyes  of  Washington — "  He  has  done  no  wrong  !  The  father  may  be  guilty, 
but  the  child  is  innocent !  O,  I  beseech  you,  wreak  your  vengeance  on  me, 
but  do  not  harm  my  babe  !' ' 

"  Madam,  there  is  no  one  that  dares  lay  the  finger  of  harm,  on  yourself 
or  your  child  !"  replied  Washington. 

You  can  see  this  lovely  woman  turn ;  she  places  the  babe  upon  the  bed  ; 
she  confronts  Washington  with  heaving  breast  and  flashing  eyes  : 

"  Murderer  !"  she  cried,  '*  Do  not  advance  !  You  shall  not  touch  the 
babe  !  I  know  you — know  your  plot  to  tear  that  child  from  a  Mother's 
breast,  but  I  defy  you  !" 

Strange  words  these,  but  a  glance  convinced  Washington,  that  the  wife 
of  Arnold  stood  before  him,  not  calm  and  collected,  but  with  the  light  of 
madness  giRring  from  her  blue  eyes. 

She  stood  erect,  regarding  him  with  that  blazing  eye,  that  defiant  look. 

44  0),  shame  !"  she  cried,  curling  her  proud  lip  in  scorn — 44  A  warrior  like 
you,  to  harm  an  innocent  babe  !  Wreak  your  vengeance  on  me  I  am 
ready  to  bear  it  all.  But  the  child — what  has  he  ever  done  ?" 


THE  FALL  OF  LUCIFER.  209 

Her  voice  softened  as  she  spoke  these  last  words  :  she  bent  forward  with 
i  look  of  beseeching  eloquence. 

*'  On  my  word,  I  will  protect  you  and  your  babe  !"  said  Washington, 
and  his  voice  grew  tremulous  with  emotion. 

For  a  moment,  she  stood  before  him  calm  and  beautiful,  even  with  her 
disordered  robes  and  loosened  tresses,  but  that  moment  gone,  the  light  of 
madness  blazed  again  from  her  eyes. 

"  Murderer  !"  she  exclaimed,  again,  and  grasped  his  arm,  with  a  clutch 
like  the  last  effort  of  the  dying  ;  but  as  she  spoke,  her  face  grew  paler,  her 
bosom  ceased  to  beat ;  she  dashed  the  thickly  clustered  tresses  from  her 
face,  and  fell  to  the  floor. 

The  only  signs  of  life  which  she  exhibited,  were  a  tremulous  motion  of 
the  fingers,  a  slight  quivering  of  the  nether  lip.  Her  eyes  wide  open,  glared 
in  the  face  of  Washington.  Then,  from  those  lips,  whose  beauty  had  been 
sung  by  poets,  celebrated  by  warriors,  pressed  by  the  Traitor,  started  a 
white  foam,  spotted  with  drops  of  blood. 

And  the  babe  upon  the  bed,  with  its  face  baptized  in  the  light  of  the  sui 
ting  sun,  smiled  playfully  as  it  clapped  its  tiny  hands  and  tried  to  grasp  the 
fleeting  beams. 

Washington  stood  beside  the  unconscious  woman  :  his  face  was  con 
vulsed  with  feeling.  The  tears  started  from  his  eyes. 

"  May  God  help  you,  and  protect  your  babe  !"  he  said,  and  hurried  from 
the  room. 

What  mean  these  strange  scenes,  occurring  on  this  25th  of  Sept.,  1780  ? 
What  were  the  contents  of  the  letter  which  Arnold  received  at  the  Breakfast 
table  ?  Can  you  tell  what  Revelations  were  those  comprised  in  the  letters 
and  papers  which  Washington  perused,  on  the  afternoon  of  this  interesting 
day? 

Who  was  John  Andre  ? 

Was  the  Wife  of  Arnold  a  Partner  in  the  work  of  Treason  ? 

The  first  question  must  be  answered  by  another  picture,  painted  on  the 
shadows  of  the  Past. 

Ere  we  survey  this  picture,  let  us  glance  for  a  moment,  at  the  last  scene 
of  that  fatal  day. 

While  the  Wife  lay  cold  and  senseless,  there,  in  the  chamber  of  her  des 
olated  home,  the  State  Room  of  the  Vulture  presented  a  scene  of  some 
interest. 

The  British  ship  was  gliding  over  the  Hudson,  its  dishonored  flag  tinted 
by  the  last  beam  of  the  setting  sun.  On  the  soft  cushions  of  the  State 
room  sofa,  was  seated  a  man,  with  his  throat  bared,  his  brow  darkened, 
every  line  of  his  face  distorted  by  passion.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  an 
object,  which  rested  on  the  Turkish  carpet  at  his  feet. 

That  man,  the  Hero  of  the  Wilderness,  whose  glory  had  burst  upon  tns 


210  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

sountry,  with  the  bewildering  splendor  of  the  Aurora,  which  flushes  th« 
northern  sky  with  dies  of  matchless  beauty — Benedict  Arnold. 

That  object  was  an  unsheathed  sword — the  sword  of  Quebec  and  Sar 
atoga. 

XV— THE    TULIP-POPLAR; 
OR 

THE  POOR  MEN  HEROES  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

ONE  fine  morning  in  the  fall  of  1780,  seven  men  went  out  by  the  roadside 
to  watch  for  robbers  ! 

It  was  two  days  before  the  scene  of  the  Breakfast  table. 

Four  of  these  men  concealed  themselves  in  the  bushes  on  the  summit  of  a 
high  hill. 

Three  of  their  comrades  sat  down  under  a  large  poplar  tree — some  hun 
dred  yards  to  the  northward — for  a  pleasant  game  at  cards. 

These  are  plain  sentences,  telling  simple  facts,  yet  on  these  simple  facts 
hinged  the  destiny  of  George  Washington,  the  Continental  Army,  and  the 
cause  of  freedom. 

Let  us  go  yonder  into  the  hollow,  where  the  highway,  descending  a  hill, 
crosses  a  gentle  brook,  ascends  the  opposite  hill,  and  is  lost  to  view  among 
the  trees  to  the  south.  On  either  side  of  the  road,  darkens  the  foliage  of 
the  forest  trees,  scarcely  tinged  by  the  breath  of  autumn. 

This  gentle  brook,  tossing  and  murmuring  on  its  way,  is  surmounted  b) 
a  bridge  of  rade  pine  planks,  defended  on  either  side  by  a  slender  railing. 

A  dark-brown  horse  stands  champing  the  bit  and  tossing  his  black  mane 
in  the  centre  of  the  bridge,  while  his  dismounted  rider  bends  over  yonder 
railing,  and  gazes  down  into  the  brooklet  with  a  vacant  stare. 

Let  us  look  well  upon  that  traveller.  The  manly  form,  enveloped  in  a 
blue  overcoat,  the  young  brow,  surmounted  by  a  farmer's  round  hat,  the 
undercoat  of  a  rich  scarlet  hue,  with  gold  buttons  and  tinselled  trinkets,  the 
well  polished  boots,  all  display  the  mingled  costume  of  a  yeoman  and  a 
soldier. 

His  rich  brown  hair  tosses  aside  from  his  brow  :  his  dark  hazel  eye 
grows  glassy  with  thought :  his  cheek  is  white  and  red  by  turns.  Now  his 
lip  is  compressed,  and  now  it  quivers.  Look  !  He  no  longer  leans  upon 
the  railing,  no  longer  gazes  down  into  the  dark  waters,  but  pacing  hurriedly 
up  and  down  the  rustic  bridge,  displaying  the  elegance  of  his  form,  the 
beauty  of  his  manly  face,  to  the  light  of  day. 

The  sun  is  seen  by  intervals  through  the  tops  of  these  eastern  trees :  the 
song  of  birds  is  in  the  woods ;  the  air  comes  freighted  with  the  rich  odours 
of  fall.  It  is  a  beautiful  morning.  Light,  feathery  clouds  floating  overhead, 
only  serve  to  relieve  the  clear  blue  of  the  autumnal  sky. 

It  is  a  beautiful  morning,  but  the  young  traveller  feels  not  the  breeze 
cares  not  for  the  joyous  beam.  Nor  do  those  wreaths  of  autumnal  misi, 


THE    TULIP-POPLAR.  ft;  | 

in  graceful  festoons  among  the  tall  forest  trees,  arrest  the  glance  of 
n/s  hazel  eye. 

He  paces  along  the  bridge.  Now  he  lays  his  hand  upon  the  mane  of  hws 
horse ;  now  hastily  buttons  his  overcoat,  as  if  to  conceal  the  undercoat  of 
"laret,  with  its  handsome  gold  buttons  ;  and  at  last,  pausing  in  the  centre 
of  the  bridge,  he  clasps  his  hands,  and  gazes  absently  upon  the  rough  planks. 

Well  may  that  man  that  paces  the  bridge,  thus  clasping  his  hands,  thus 
stand  like  marble,  with  his  dark  hazel  eyes  glassy  with  thought. 

For  he  is  a  Gambler. 

He  has  matched  his  life  against  a  glittering  boon — the  sword  of  a  General. 
The  game  he  plays  is — Treason — if  he  wins,  an  army  is  betrayed,  a  Gene 
ral  captured,  a  Continent  lost.  If  he  loses,  he  dies  on  the  gallows,  with 
the  rope  about  his  neck,  and  the  bandage  over  his  eyes. 

Was  he  not  a  bold  Gambler  ? 

He  has  been  far  into  the  enemy's  country.  Over  the  river,  up  the  rocks, 
and  into  the  secret  chamber.  With  the  TRAITOR  he  has  planned  the  Trea 
son.  Now  he  is  on  his  way  home  again  to  the  city,  where  his  General 
awaits  him,  trembling  with  suspense. 

Is  that  not  a  handsome  boot  on  his  right  foot?  I  do  not  allude  so  much 
to  the  heavy  tops,  nor  to  the  polished  surface,  but  to  the  glove-like  nicety 
with  which  it  envelopes  the  manly  leg.  That  boot  contains  the  fortress  of 
West  Point,  the  liberty  of  George  Washington,  the  safety  of  the  Continental 
Army  !  An  important  boot,  you  will  admit,  and  well  adapted  to  create 
fever  in  his  mind  who  wears  it. 

One  question  is  there  before  the  mind  of  that  young  traveller :  Can  he 
pass  unmolested  to  the  city  of  New  York  ? 

He  has  come  far  on  his  journey  ;  he  has  passed  through  perils  that 
chilled  his  blood,  and  now  thirty  miles  alone  remain.  But  thirty  miles  of 
neutral  ground,  ravaged  by  robbers  from  both  armies,  who  plunder  the 
American  because  he  is  not  a  Briton,  and  rob  the  Briton  because  he  is  not 
an  American. 

This  is  a  thrilling  question. 

Those  papers  in  his  boot,  once  transferred  to  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  this 
young  gentleman  will  be  rewarded  with  a  General's  commission. 

As  this  brilliant  thought  passes  over  his  mind,  there  comes  another 
thought,  sad,  sweet,  tender. 

The  little  sitting  room  yonder  in  England,  where  his  fair-haired  sister, 
and  his  sister  with  the  flowing  dark  tresses,  are  seated  by  the  mother's 
knee,  talking  of  him,  their  absent  brother !  O,  it  is  sweet  to  dream  by 
night,  but  sweeter  far,  to  dream  by  day,  with  the  eyes  wide  open.  A  beau 
tiful  dream  !  That  old  familiar  room,  with  oaken  wa.nscot  and  antique 
furniture ;  the  mother,  with  her  placid  face,  venerable  with  grey  hair  ;  the 
fair  girls  now  blushing  and  ripening  into  women  ! 

*le  wili  return  home  ;  yes,  they  shall  hear  his  manly  steo.     They  shall 


m  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

look  from  the  door,  and  instead  of  the  untitled  Cadet,  behold  tne 
General.     The  thought  fires  his  soul. 

He  gives  his  fears  to  the  wind.  For  he  is  a  brave  man,  but  no\»  *tt  t» 
afraid,  for  he  is  doing  a  coward's  work,  and  feels  a  coward's  pangs. 

He  springs  on  his  horse,  and  with  Washington,  West  Point,  and  the  Con 
tinental  Army  in  his  right  boot,  he  passes  on  his  way. 

Let  us  go  up  yonder  hill  before  him.  What  is  this  we  see  ? 
.  hree  men  seated  beneath  a  tree  playing  cards  !  Alone  and  magnificent 
stands  that  Tulip-Poplar,  its  broad  limbs  extending  at  least  forty  feet  from 
the  trunk,  and  that  trunk  six  feet  in  diameter.  Such  a  tree  you  may  not 
see  in  a  life-time.  A  trunk,  like  the  column  of  some  Druid  Templa,  hewn 
of  granite  rock,  a  shade  like  the  shelter  of  some  colossal  war-tent.  How  the 
broad  green  leaves  toss  to  and  fro  to  the  impulse  of  the  breeze ! 

It  stands  somewhat  aside  from  the  road,  separated  from  the  trees  of 
yonder  wood. 

While  these  men  pass  the  cards  and  fill  the  air  with  the  song  and  laugh, 
let  us  draw  near. 

That  small  man,  leaning  forward,  with  the  smile  on  his  lips,  is  named 
WILLIAMS.  He  is  near  forty  years  of  age,  as  you  can  see  by  the  intricate 
wrinkles  on  his  face.  His  costume,  a  plain  farmer's  dress,  with  belt  and 
powder  horn.  By  his  side,  reclining  on  the  ground,  a  man  of  large  frame, 
stalward  arms,  broad  chest,  also  leans  forward,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  game. 
He  is  named  VAN  WERT.  His  face,  dogged  and  resolute  in  its  expression, 
gives  you  an  idea  of  his  character.  The  third,  a  tall,  well-formed  man  of 
some  twenty  years,  with  an  intelligent  countenance  and  dark  eye,  is  dressed 
in  a  faded  British  uniform.  He  is  at  once  the  most  intelligent  and  soldier 
like  man  of  the  company.  His  name  is  PAULDING. 

Their  rifles  are  laid  against  the  trunk  of  the  tulip-poplar.  Here  we  have 
them,  intent  upon  their  game,  lauo-hing  in  careless  glee,  now  and  then  sing 
ing  a  camp  song,  while  the  cards  move  briskly  in  their  fingers. 

All  at  once  the  party  turned  their  faces  to  the  north.  The  sound  of 
a  horse's  hoof  struck  on  their  ears. 

"  Here  comes  a  stranger  !"  exclaimed  Van  Wert,  with  a  marked  Dutch 
accent,  ««  A  fine,  gentleman-like  man.  Hey,  Paulding  ?  Had  not  we  better 
stop  him  ?" 

Paulding  sprang  <o  his  feet.  He  beheld  our  young  traveller  riding  slowly 
toward  '.he  iree.  In  a  moment  he  was  in  the  highway,  intently  regarding 
tlu;  stranger,  whom  he  surveyed  with  a  meaning  glance. 

As  his  lorse  reached  the  poplar  tree,  Williams  sprang  forward  and  seized 
the  reins  yhile  Paulding  presented  his  rifle  to  the  breast  of  the  young  man. 

"  Stano   "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  deep,  sonorous  voice,  "  Which  way  ?" 

For  a  ruoment  the  stranger  gazed  in  the  face  of  the  soldier,  who  stooo 
before  him,  clad  in  a  British  uniform.  A  shade  of  doubt,  inquiry,  tea* 
passed  over  his  handsome  face. 


THE    TULIP- POPLAR.  213 

»•  Gentlemen,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  which  struck  their  ears  with  its  tone* 
of  music,  "  I  hope  you  belong  to  our  party  ?" 

"  Which  party  ?"  ashed  Paulding. 

"  The  Lower  Party .'"  returned  the  traveller. 

A  smile  darted  over  Paulding's  face. 

"  So  do  I,"  said  he,  still  keeping  his  rifle  at  the  breast  of  the  unknown. 
'  I  am  a  British  officer  !"  exclaimed  the  young  man,  rising  proudly  in  his 
stirrups,  as  he  displayed  a  gold  watch  in  his  extended  hand.      "  I  trust  that 
you  will  know  better  than  to  detain  me,  when  you  learn  that  I  am  out  ol 
the  country  on  particular  business." 

The  three  soldiers  started.  The  athletic  Van  Wert  advanced  to  the  side 
of  Williams,  and  seized  the  other  bridle  rein.  Paulding  smiled  grimly. 

"  Dismount !"  he  said,  pointing  the  rifle  at  the  very  heart  of  the  stranger, 
who  gazed  from  face  to  face  with  a  look  of  wonder. 

"  My  God  !"  said  he,  gaily,  with  a  faint  laugh,  "I  suppose  I  must  do 
anything  to  pass." 

He  drew  from  his  breast  a  paper,  which  he  extended  to  Paulding.  The 
other  soldiers  look  over  their  comrade's  shoulder  as  he  read  it  aloud  : 

Head  Quarters,  Robinson's  House,  Sept'r  22d,  1780. 

Permit  Mr.  John  Anderson  to  pass  the  Guards  to  the  White  Plains,  or  below 
if  he  chooses.  He  being  on  Public  Business  by  my  Direction. 

B.  ARNOLD,  M.  Gen. 

"  Now,"  said  the  bearer  of  this  passport,  as  he  dismounted,  "  I  hope  you 
will  permit  me  to  pass.  You  will  risk  a  great  deal  by  detaining  me.  Gene 
ral  Arnold  will  not  lightly  overlook  my  detention,  1  assure  you  !" 

Paulding,  with  the  paper  in  his  hand,  turned  to  his  comrades,  who,  with 
surprise  in  their  faces,  uttered  some  hurried  words,  inaudible  to  the  stranger. 

"  You  see,  sir,  I'd  let  you  pass,"  said  Paulding,  "  but  there's  so  many 
bad  people  about,  I'm  afeerd  you  might  be  one  of  them.  Besides, Blister 
Anderson,  how  came  you,  a  British  officer,  in  possession  of  this  pass  from 
an  American  General?" 

For  the  first  time  the  face  of  the  stranger  was  clouded.  His  lip  was 
tightly  compressed,  as  though  he  was  collecting  all  the  resources  of  his 
mind. 

"  Why  do  you  wear  a  British  uniform  ?"  he  exclaimed,  pointing  to  Paul- 
ding's  dress. 

"  Why  you  see,  the  tories  and  robbers  belongin'  to  your  army,  would  not 
let  me  live  a  peaceable  life  until  I  enlisted  under  your  king.  I  staid  in  New 
York  until  I  could  escape,  which  I  did  one  fine  day,  with  this  uniform  on 
my  back.  Here  I  am,  on  neutral  ground,  but  an  American  to  the  backbone  !" 

"  Come,  Mister,"  exclaimed  Williams,  "  You  may  as  well  walk  into  th« 
bushes  ;  we  want  to  sarch  you." 

Without  a  word,  the  stranger  suffered  them  to  lead  him  under  the  shad* 


2H  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

of  yonder  wood.  In  a  moment  he  stood  on  a  mossy  sod,  with  a  leafy 
canopy  overhead.  Around  him,  with  suspicion,  wonder,  curiosity,  stamped 
on  their  faces,  stood  Paulding,  Williams,  and  Van  Wert. 

He  was  calm,  that  unknown  man ;  not  a  flush  was  on  his  face,  not  a 
frown  upon  his  brow.  Yet  his  hazel  eye  glanced  from  face  to  face  with  a 
look  of  deep  anxiety. 

They  took  the  overcoat,  the  coat  of  claret  hue,  glittering  with  tinsel,  the 
nankin  and  flannel  waistcoats,  nay,  the  ruffled  shirt  itself,  from  his  form, 
and  yet  no  evidence  of  his  character  in  the  shape  of  written  or  printed  paper 
met  their  eyes.  At  last  his  boots,  his  under-garments,  all  save  his  stock 
ings,  were  removed ;  yet  still  no  paper,  no  sign  of  mystery  or  treason  was 
revealed. 

He  stood  in  that  silent  recess,  with  all  the  proud  beauty  of  that  form — 
which,  in  its  manliness  of  chest,  grace  of  limb,  elegance  of  outline,  rivalled 
the  Apollo  of  the  Sculptor's  dream — laid  bare  to  the  light.  His  brown  curls, 
tossed  to  the  impulse  of  the  breeze,  about  his  face  and  brow.  His  arm* 
were  folded  across  his  breast,  as  he  gazed  in  the  soldier's  faces. 

"  Your  stockings,  if  you  please,"  said  Paulding,  bending  down  at  the 
officer's  feet.  The  stocking  of  the  right  foot  was  drawn,  and  lo !  three 
carefully  folded  papers,  placed  next  the  sole  of  the  foot,  were  disclosed.  In 
a  moment  the  other  stocking,  and  three  papers  more. 

The  young  man  shook  with  a  sudden  tremor. 

One  burst  of  surprise  echoed  from  the  soldiers  as  they  opened  the  papers. 

The  stranger  had  one  hope  !  They  were  but  rude  men ;  they  might  not 
be  able  to  read  the  papers,  but  that  hope  was  vain,  for  in  a  clear,  bold  voice 
Paulding  gave  their  fatal  secret  to  the  air. 

Artillery  orders,  showing  how  the  garrison  of  West  Point  should  be  dis 
posed  of  in  case  of  an  alarm ;  an  estimate  of  the  force  of  the  fortress ;  an 
estimate  of  the  number  of  men,  requisite  to  man  the  works  ;  a  return  of  the 
ordnance  ;  remarks  on  the  strength  and  weakness  of  the  various  works,  a 
report  of  a  council  of  war  lately  at  head  quarters,  concerning  the  campaign, 
which  Washington  had  sent  to  Arnold — such  were  the  secrets  of  these 
papers,  all  in  the  undisguised  hand  writing  of  Benedict  Arnold. 

It  is  in  vain  to  picture  the  dismay  which  was  stamped  upon  each  soldier's 
face,  as  word  by  word,  they  spelled  out  and  guessed  out  the  terrible  treach 
ery,  which,  to  their  plain  minds,  seemed  to  hang  over  these  letters. 

The  young  man — now  their  prisoner — stood  silent,  but  pale  as  death. 
For  a  moment  all  his  fortitude  seemed  to  have  forsaken  him. 

At  last,  laying  his  hands  on  Paulding's  arms,  he  said,  in  tremulous  tones 

44  Take  my  watch,  my  horse,  my  purse — all  I  have — only  let  mf  go !" 

This  was  a  terrible  temptation  for  three  poor  men,  who,  living  in  a  land 
demoralized  by  war,  where  neither  property  nor  life  was  safe  for  an  hour 
had  never,  in  all  their  lives,  owned  such  a  fine  horse,  elegant  gotf  wnteh, 
or  purse  of  yellow  guineas. 


THE    TULIP-POPLAR.  21") 

For  a  moment  Paulding  was  silent,  his  manly  face  wore  a  hesitating  look, 
44  Will  you  gif  us  any  ting  else  ?"  said  Van  Wert,  with  a  strong  Dutch 
*ccent. 

"  Yes,  I  will  make  each  man  of  you  rich  for  life,"  repeated  the  young 
man,  his  manner  growing  more  urgent,  while  his  face  was  agitated  with 
emotion. — "  Lands — dry-goods — money,  to  enable  you  to  live  independent 
of  the  world — anything  you  like,  only  let  me  go  !" 

Poor  fellow  !  His  tones  were  tremulous.  He  was  only  pleading  not  for 
a  free  passage,  but  for  life,  and  a— Generalship.  A  terribly  distinct  vision 
of  his  mother  and  sisters  flashed  over  his  soul. 

"  But,  Mister,"  exclaimed  Williams,  "  How  are  we  to  know  that  you'll 
keep  your  word  ?" 

44  I  will  stay  here  until  you  go  into  the  city  and  return  !"  was  the  response 
of  the  prisoner. 

Paulding  was  yet  silent,  with  a  shade  of  gloom  on  his  brow,  while  Van 
Wert  and  Williams  looked  in  one  another's  face.  The  prisoner,  with  agony 
quivering  in  every  feature,  awaited  their  reply. 

44  Dress  yourself,"  muttered  Paulding,  in  a  rough  voice. 
"  Then  you  consent,you  will  let  me  go  ?"  eagerly  exclaimed   the  diguiscd 
officer. 

Paulding  made  no  reply. 
Slowly  he  resumed  his  apparel. 

He  then  looked  around,  as  if  to  read  his  doom  in  the  faces  of  these 
rude  men. 

For  they  were  rude  men.  It  was  an  awful  time  of  fear,  doubt,  murder, 
that  era  of  1780.  No  man  could  trust  his  neighbor.  This  thirty  miles  of 
neutral  ground  was  as  much  under  the  control  of  law  as  the  Desert  of  Ara 
bia.  These  men  had  felt  the  hand  of  British  wrong  ;  they  had  been  robbed, 
ill-treated,  trampled  under  foot  by  British  power. 

Here  was  a  chance  to  make  them  all  rich  men.  The  young  man's  words 
were  fair.  He  would  remain  a  prisoner  until  they  had  tested  his  truth,  by 
going  to  New  York.  They  knew  that  some  strange  mystery  hung  about 
his  path ;  they  guessed  that  his  escape  would  bring  danger  to  Washington. 
But  more  than  this,  they  could  neither  know  nor  guess. 

Admit,  as  some  have  urged,  that  these  men  were  robbers,  who  came  out 
this  fine  morning  of  September,  to  try  their  fortune  on  the  highway,  and 
the  case  becomes  more  difficult.  If  poor  men,  they  would  scarcely  refuse 
his  offer ;  if  robbers,  they  would  at  once  take  watch,  and  horse,  and  gold, 
and  bid  him  go  ! 

For  some  moments  deep  silence  prevailed. 

"  Will  you  accept  my  offer,  gentlemen  ?" 

Paulding  turned  and  faced  him. 

44  No  !"  said  he,  in  a  voice  which  chilled  the  young  man's  blood  ;  "  If 


216  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

you  were  to  offer  me  ten  thousand  guineas  I  could  not — I  would  not,  let 
you  go  !" 

The  prisoner  said  not  a  word,  but  his  face  grew  paler. 

They  went  slowly  forth  from  the  wood,  and  stood  once  more  beneath  the 
Tulip-Poplar. 

The  young  stranger  looked  upon  his  horse,  which  was  to  bear  him  away 
a  prisoner,  and  his  heart  thrilled  with  a  pang  like  death. 

At  this  moment,  turning  to  the  west,  he  beheld  a  sight  which  chilled  his 
blood.  The  British  ship  VULTURE, — which  he  had  missed  near  West 
Point,  by  some  accident  never  yet  explained — rode  there,  upon  the  calm 
Hudson,  within  a  mile  from  the  spot  where  he  stood.  Escape,  safety, 
honor,  so  near,  and  yet  he  was  a  prisoner. 

Once  more  he  turned,  once  more  in  piercing  tones,  with  hurried  ges 
tures,  he  besought  them  to  take  all ;  he  promised  them  fortune,  only  that 
he  might  depart. 

But  still  that  stern  answer  : 

"  FOR  TEN  THOUSAND  GUINEAS  WE  WOULD  NOT  LET  YOU  GO  !" 

The  sun  was  up  in  the  heavens.  The  breeze  tossed  the  magnificent 
limbs  of  the  Tulip-Poplar.  Grouped  under  its  shadow  were  the  captors 
and  their  prisoner.  Here,  the  manly  Paulding,  with  an  expression  of  pity 
stealing  over  his  face  ;  there,  Williams,  his  countenance  expressing  a  dull, 
apathetic  wonder  ;  farther  on,  Van  Wert,  his  form  raising  above  his  com 
rades,  while  his  arms  were  folded  across  his  breast.  The  cards  were  lit 
tered  over  the  grass,  but  each  man  grasped  his  rifle. 

O,  silken  people,  in  fine  robes,  who  read  your  perfumed  volumes,  detail 
ing  the  virtues  of  the  rich  and  great,  can  you  see  no  virtue  under  those  rude 
waistcoats,  no  greatness  in  those  peasant  faces  ?  It  has  been  my  task  again 
and  again,  to  portray  the  grandeur  of  a  Washington,  the  chivalry  of  La 
fayette,  the  glorious  deeds  of  Wayne ;  but  here,  in  these  half-robber,  half- 
soldier  forms,  methinks  is  found  a  SELF-DENIAL,  that  will  match  the  bright 
est  of  them  all.  Honor  to  Washington,  and  Lafayette,  and  Wayne,  ant1 
honor  to  Paulding,  Williams,  and  Van  Wert,  the  POOR  MEN  HEROES  OF 
THE  REVOLUTION. 

They  stood  grouped  under  the  Tulip-Poplar ;  but  their  prisoner  ? 

He  laid  his  arras  upon  his  horse's  neck,  and  hid  his  face  on  its  dark 
mane. 

Long  ago  the  bones  of  that  young  traveller  crumbled  to  dust,  in  a  felon's 
grave,  beneath  a  gibbet's  foot. 

Long  ago,  on  a  stormy  night,  the  lightnings  of  God  descended  upon  the 
Tulip-Poplar,  and  rent  its  trunk  to  the  roots,  and  scattered  its  branches  to 
the  air. 

And  Paulding,  Williams,  and  Van  Wert,  are  also  gone,  but  their  namet 


THE    TULIP-POPLAR.  217 

we  remembered  foi  evermore.  Let  us  look  for  A  moment  at  the  class  to 
which  they  belonged,  let  us  take  one  of  these  humble  men  and  paint  the 
picture  of  a  Poor  Man  Hero, 

He  crouches  beside  the  trunk  of  the  giant  oak,  on  the  wild  wood 

side.  He  s_weeps  the  overhanging  leaves  aside  with  his  brawny  hand — the 
light  falls  suddenly  over  his  swarthy  and  sunburnt  face,  over  his  fur  cap, 
with  its  bucktail  plume,  over  the  blue  hunting  shirt,  over  his  forest  mocca 
sins,  and  huntsman's  attire.  He  raises  the  glittering  rifle  to  his  eye,  that 
keen,  grey  eye,  looking  from  beneath  the  bushy  eyebrow,  and  fixed  upon 
the  distant  foeman — he  raises  his  rifle,  he  aims  at  the  star  on  the  heart — he 
fires.  The  wood  rings  with  the  sound — the  Britisher  has  taken  the  mea 
sure  of  his  grave. 

And  thus  speeding  along  from  tree  to  rock,  from  the  fence  to  the  secure 
ambush  of  the  buckwheat  field — speeding  along  with  his  stealthy  footsteps, 
and  his  keen  eye  ever  on  the  watch,  the  bold  rifleman  heeds  not  the  battle 
raging  in  the  valley  below  ;  he  cares  not  for  the  noise,  the  roar  of  cannon, 
the  mechanical  march  of  the  drilled  columns  ;  he  cares  for  naught  but  his 
own  true  rifle,  that  bears  a  death  in  every  ball — that  shrieks  a  death-knell 
at  every  fire.  A  free  man  was  the  old  rifleman.  His  home  was  the  wild 
wood,  his  companions  the  beasts  of  the  ravine,  and  the  birds  of  the  cliff* ; 
his  friend,  true  and  unfailing,  was  his  rifle,  and  his  joy  was  to  wander 
along  the  lonely  pathway  of  the  wilderness,  to  track  the  Indian  to  his 
camp-fire,  the  panther  to  his  lair. 

A  free  man  was  the  old  rifleman.  At  the  close  of  the  day's  hard  chase, 
what  king  so  happy  as  he  ?  He  seats  himself  on  the  green  sward,  at  the 
foot  of  the  ancient  oak,  in  the  depths  of  the  eternal  woods,  while  the  setting 
sunbeams  fling  their  lines  of  gold  athward  the  mossy  carpet,  and  between 
the  quivering  leaves  of  the  twilight  foliage. 

He  rears  the  booth  of  forest  branches,  with  its  walls  and  roof  of  leaves, 
he  spreads  his  couch  of  buffalo  robes,  and  then  gathering  the  limbs  of  de 
cayed  trees,  he  lights  his  fire,  and  the  rosy  gleam  flares  over  the  darkening 
woods,  a  sign  of  home  built  in  the  wilderness. 

The  victim  of  the  day's  chase,  the  gallant  deer,  is  then  dragged  to  the  fire 
side,  divested  of  his  skin,  and  anon  the  savory  steak  smokes  in  the  blaze, 
and  the  tree  hermit  of  the  woods,  the  free  old  backwoodsman,  rubs  his  bony 
hands  with  glee,  and  chuckles  with  all  a  hunter's  delight. 

Such  were  the  men  that  thronged  the  woods  and  peopled  the  solitudes 
of  this,  our  glorious  land  of  the  New  World,  in  the  year  of  grace,  SEVENTY- 
SIX, — in  the  year  of  freedom — One.  To  this  class  belong  the  captors  of 
Andre,  who  refused  a  fortune,  rather  than  aid  the  enemy  of  Washington. 
Such  were  the  men  whom  the  British  were  sent  to  conquer :  such  were 
the  men  who  knew  nothing  of  pretty  uniforms,  mechanical  drills,  or  regular 
lines  of  march,  whom  the  stout  red-coats  were  to  annihilate. 

The  huntsman's  frock  of  blue  was  not  very  handsome,  his  rough  leggings 


218  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

were  not  quite  as  pretty  as  the  grenadier's  well  polished  boots,  his  cap  of 
fur  was  a  shapeless  thing  altogether,  and  yet  he  had  two  things  that  some 
times  troubled  his  enemies  not  a  little — a  sure  rifle,  and  a  keen  eye. 

Let  us  be  just  to  their  memories.  While  we  honor  Paulding,  Williams 
and  Van  Wert,  let  us  remember  that  ten  thousand  such  as  these,  rest  un 
known,  unnamed,  beneath  the  graves  of  the  Past,  while  the  grass  grows 
more  beautiful  above,  moistened  with  their  blood,  the  unhonored  Poor  Men 
Heroes  of  the  Revolution.* 


It  now  becomes  our  task  to  examine  the  contents  of  the  letter  which 
Arnold  received  at  the  Breakfast  table. 

Andre,  when  captured,  was  taken  to  the  nearest  military  post  at  North 
Castle,  where  Colonel  Jamison  was  stationed  with  a  regiment  of  dragoons. 
This  brave  officer  was  utterly  confounded  by  the  revelations  of  the  papers, 
which  had  been  concealed  in  the  boot  of  the  Conspirator.  He  could  not 
imagine,  that  a  General  so  renowned  as  Arnold  was  a  Traitor.  His  con 
fusion  may  be  imagined  when  it  is  known,  that  the  letter  perused  by  the 
traitor  at  the  breakfast  table,  was  a  hasty  note  from  Jamison,  announcing  the 
capture  of  a  man  named  Anderson,  who  •*  had  a  passport  signed  in  your 
name  and  papers  of  a  very  dangerous  tendency.1'' 

At  the  same  time,  he  announced  that  he  had  sent  these  dangerous  papers 
to  Washington. — You  have  seen  the  agitation  of  the  Ameriean  General, 
when  after  two  day's  delay,  he  received  these  documents  at  Robinson's 
House. — The  honest  blunder  of  Jamison  saved  the  Traitor's  neck. 

Next  comes  the  question — Was  Arnold's  wife  a  Partner  in  the  work  of 
Treason  ?  Again  let  us  question  the  shadows  of  the  past  for  an  answer. 
Was  her  fate,  in  any  manner,  connected  with  the  destiny  of  John  Andre  ? 
Let  these  scenes,  which  break  upon  us  from  the  theatre  of  the  Revolution, 
solve  the  question, 


NOTE. — There  is  a  strange  mystery  connected  with  this  capture.  Like  other 
prominent  incidents  of  the  Revolution,  it  has  -b^en  described  in  at  least  twenty 
different  ways.  The  distinguished  historian,  Sparks, 'presents  a  plain,  straightforward 
account,  which  in  its  turn  is  contradieted  by  a  late  article  in  a  western  paper, 
purporting  to  be  reminiscences  of  a  gentlemen  named  Hudson,  who  professes  to  be 
conversant  with  the  facts,  from  an  actual  acquaintance  with  Paulding,  Williams, 

4  and  Van  Wert.     Mr.  H.  states  that  Paulding  wore  a  British  uniform;    that  Williams 

was  despatched  with  a  note  to  Arnold  ;  and  that  the  prisoner  was  taken  to  Sing  Sing, 
and  from  thence  to  Tappan,  where  Washington  arrived  in  a  few  minutes.  Sparks, 
the  FIRST  Historian  of  our  country,  makes  no  mention  of  the  uniform,  and  by  the 
evidence  of  the  three  heroes,  directly  contradicts  the  other  statements.  Andre 
was  taken  to  North  Castle,  while  Washington  was  absent  on  a  journey  to  Hartford. 
Not  a  word  (on  the  trial  of  Andre,)  was  said  by  either  Paulding  or  his  comrades,  in 
relation  to  the  departure  of  Williams  with  a  note  to  Arnold.  There  is  an  evident 
ambiguity  here,  which  should  be  removed.  Mr.  Hudson's  statement,  plain  and  decided 
as  it  is,  contradicts  the  evidence  of  the  men  from  whom  he  received  it.  If  correct, 
then  they  uttered  falsehoods  on  the  trial  of  Andre, — if  untrue,  they  are  guilty  of 
wilful  or  involuntary  misrepresentation.  The  mention  of  the  British  uniform  placet 
A  new  construction  upon  the  whole  affair,  and  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  only  satisfactor? 
explanation  of  the  conduct  of  Andre,  ever  vet  published. 


THE   KNIGHT    OF  THE  MESCH1ANZA.  2lt 


XVI.—  THE   KNIGHT   OF    THE    MESCHIANZA. 

Two  scenes  from  the  past  j  two  scenes  from  the  dim  shadows  of  Revo- 
utionary  Romance.  One  is  a  scene  of  Light  —  the  other,  of  Gloom. 

The  first  scene  took  place  when  the  British  Army  was  in  Philadelphia  ; 
and  while  Benedict  Arnold  was  confined  to  his  room,  in  the  city  of  New 
Haven,  with  the  wounds  of  Saratoga. 

The  other  scene  occurred  more  than  two  years  afterwards,  when  Benedict 
Arnold  was  in  command  at  West  Point. 

Yonder,  on  the  outskirts  of  Philadelphia,  stands  an  old  house,  with  the 
marks  of  decay  about  its  roofs,  its  windows  and  walls.  An  old  house,  with 
scattered  tenements  and  broken  commons  all  around  it.  Not  long  ago, 
fallen  into  utter  neglect,  it  was  occupied  as  a  coach-shop  ;  now  it  is  crowded 
with  the  young  faces,  the  busy  hum  of  a  common  school. 

There  was  a  time,  when  that  old  house  was  a  lordly  palace,  with  one 
wide  green  lawn  stretching  away  from  the  hall-door  for  half  a  mile,  away 
to  the  brink  of  the  broad  Delaware. 

There  was  a  night  when  that  house  shook  to  the  tread  of  warriors,  and 
the  steps  of  dancers  —  when  every  tree  along  that  wide  lawn  shone  with 
lights  on  every  bough.  Yes,  a  night,  a  banquet  was  given  there  by  the 
officers  of  Sir  William  Howe,  in  honor  of  his  glorious  victory  !  Victory  ? 
Yes,  in  honor  of  the  fact  that  he  hadn't  been  worse  beaten,  by  Mister 
Washington. 

Ah,  it  was  a  glorious  night.  A  midnight  sky  above,  and  light  and  glitter 
below.  Then  gondolas,  freighted  with  beauty,  glided  over  the  waters, 
flashing  streams  of  light  along  the  dark  waves.  Then  the  gallant  officers 
put  off  their  red  coats  to  put  on  armor  and  helmet,  like  knights  of  old,  and 
a  gay  tournament,  with  heralds,  and  plumes,  and  steeds,  and  banners,  flashed 
over  the  wide  lawn. 

Let  us  for  a  moment  look  upon  this  tournament. 

In  yonder  balcony,  on  the  southern  side  of  the  lawn  —  that  balcony,  over 
hung  with  the  blood-red  banner,  festooned  with  flowers  —  is  crowded  one 
living  mass  of  womanly  beauty.  Blue  eyes  and  hazel,  eyes  dark  as  mid 
night,  or  soft  and  languishing  as  June,  there  mingle  these  glances  in  one 
blaze  of  light.  There  you  behold  the  tender  forms  of  girlhood,  the  mature 
bust  of  womanhood,  there  crowded  into  one  view,  you  see  all  that  is  like 
the  ruby  or  the  rose  on  woman's  lip,  like  the  summer  dawn  on  her  cheek, 
like  the  deep  stars  of  night  in  her  eye. 

These  are  the  flowers  of  the  aristocracy,  assembled  in  one  group  of  love- 
liness,  to  grace  the  Meschianza  of  Sir  William  Howe. 

Me&chianza  ?  That  is  a  strange  word,  what  does  it  mean  ?  I  cannot 
tell  you.  but  my  mind  is  somewhat  impressed  with  the  fancy  of  its  Hindoo 


220  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

origin  Yes,  it  ia  possibly  \lerived  from  some  Sancrit  word,  and  signifies, 
to  be  glad  at  not  being  worse  beaten,  to  be  exceedingly  joyful  on  limited 
victories,  to  be  thankful  that  one's  neck  is  safe.  That  is  the  only  derivation 
I  could  ever  find  for  Mechianza. 

Below  the  balcony  spreads  the  scene  of  the  tournament.  There,  at  one 
end,  through  the  trees,  you  see  the  palace,  flaming  like  a  funeral  pyre,  with 
lights,  and  yonder,  far  down  the  lawn,  the  broad  Delaware  glimmers  into 
view. 

Hush  every  whisper ;  the  Tournament  is  ready  to  begin. 

From  these  groups  of  Knights  at  either  end  of  the  lists,  two  cavaliers 
sally  forth  and  confront  each  other.  One  in  armour  of  plated  gold,  mounted 
on  a  dark  steed,  with  a  black  plume  shadowing  his  brow.  The  other,  on 
that  milk-white  ste^d,  is  cased  from  head  to  foot,  in  an  armour  of  azure 
steel.  A  white  plume  tosses  from  his  brow. 

Now  hold  your  breath,  for  they  come  thundering  on.  On,  on,  over  the 
green  lawn,  on  to  each  other's  breasts,  on  with  the  levelled  lance. 

There  is  a  pause — they  crash  together — now  there  is  a  moment  of  doubt 
— but  now — look  !  How  the  white  scarfs  from  yon  gallery  wave  like 
snow-flakes  on  the  air. 

The  Knight  on  the  dark  steed  is  down ;  but  the  Knight  in  armour  of 
azure  steel,  mounted  on  the  milk-white  steed,  rides  round  the  lists  in 
triumph,  with  his  snowy  plume  tossing  as  he  goes. 

Oh,  this  is  a  glorious  show,  a  grand  Tournament,  a  splendid  display  of 
lovely  women,  and  oh,  for  a  swelling  word  from  the  vocabulary  of  adjectives 
—  a  Meschianza  ;  and  all  in  honor  of  Sir  William  Howe,  who  is  so  glad 
that  he  is  not  worse  beaten  by  Mister  Washington. 

Yonder  fair  girl  bending  from  the  gallery,  lets  fall  upon  the  brow  of  that 
white-plumed  Knight,  a  chaplet  of  laurel,  woven  with  lilies  and  roses. 

His  dark  hazel  eyes  upraised  catch  the  smile  as  it  speaks  from  her  lips 

The  Queen  of  Beauty  crowns  the  Victor  of  the  Tournament.  It  is  a 
lovely  picture.  Let  us  look  upon  a  lovelier. 

Yonder,  in  the  deep  shadows  of  the  grove,  where  the  lights  glare  flicker 
ing  and  indistinct,  over  the  tufted  sward,  a  knight  cased  in  glittering  armour 
kneels  at  the  feet  of  a  lovely  girl. 

For  she  is  lovely,  even  into  that  towering  head-dress  that  lays  back  her 
golden  hair  from  her  white  brow,  in  a  mass  of  powder  and  pearls  ;  she  is 
lovely  in  that  gorgeous  dress,  trailing  in  luxurious  folds  upon  the  ground,  its 
jewels  and  satin  and  gold,  hiding  the  matchless  outline  of  her  form.  Yes, 
she  is  lovely,  for  that  deep,  yet  wild  and  languishing  eye,  that  laughing  lip, 
would  be  more  beautiful,  were  the  form  girded  in  a  peasant  garb,  instead  of 
being  veiled  in  the  royal  robes  of  a  Queen. 

And  tell  me,  as  that  fair  girl,  extending  her  hand,  half  turns  her  head 
away,  the  blush  ripening  orer  her  cheek,  while  the  lover  looks  up  with  glad 
and  grateful  eyes,  tell  me,  is  it  not  as  lovely  a  picture  as  artist  ever  drew  ? 


THE    KNIGHT    OF    THE   MESCHIANZA.  221 

Now  change  the  scene.      Let  the  Tournament  pass.     Let  Sir  William \ 
Howe  go  home  to  England.     Let  the  gay  Knights  of  the  Blended  Roses 
and  Burning  Lances  go  to  the  battle-field  again,  there  to  be  beaten  by  Mad 
Anthony,  that  Knight  of  the  Iron-Hand  ;  or  George  Washington,  the  Knight 
without  Fear  and  without  Reproach. 

Now  let  us  go  to  West  Point. 

In  the  Southern  window  of  the  mansion,  opposite  that  fortress  stands  a 
beautiful  woman,  with  her  long  hair  all  scattered  in  disorder  about  her  shoul 
ders,  while  her  blue  eye,  glaring  with  a  look  like  madness,  is  fixed  on  the 
Southern  sky. 

In  that  beautiful  woman,  you  recognize  the  lovely  girl  of  the  Meschianza. 
That  woman  is  now  the  wife  of  Benedict  Arnold,  who  fled  from  West 
Point  but  a  few  brief  days  ago,  in  the  British  ship  Vulture.  That  child 
laughing  on  her  bosom,  is  the  child  of  a  Traitor. 

Yes,  she  has  linked  her  fate  with  the  destiny  of  Jlrnold.  Yet,  still  af 
ter  her  marriage,  she  continues  her  correspondence  with  the  Knight  of  the 
Meschianza,  who  dtvells  in  New  York,  the  favorite  of  Sir  Hrnry  Clinton. 

In  those  letters,  the  first  letters  of  Arnold  to  Clinton,  signed  Gustavus, 
and  speaking  Treason,  were  enclosed.  Thus,  the  letters  of  the  Wife,  to 
the  gallant  Knight,  were  the  vehicles  of  her  Husband"* 's  dishonor. — 

Why  does  she  gaze  so  earnestly  toward  the  South  ?  She  looks  for  the 
Knight  of  the  Tournament  ! 

There  on  that  piece  of  table-land,  which  looks  down  upon  the  Hudson, 
where  its  waters  sweep  in  their  broadest  flow — at  Tappan  Zee — there 
under  the  light  of  the  noon-day  sun,  a  dense  crowd  is  gathered  near  a  small 
stone  house  ;  not  a  murmur  is  heard  in  that  crowd  ;  all  is  silent  as  the  clay 
cold  lips  of  the  dead. 

Ere  we  look  upon  the  sight  which  chills  the  crowd  into  such  deep 
silence,  let  us  go  back  to  the  daybreak  hour. 

Day  was  breaking  over  the  broad  Hudson,  over  the  hills  crowned  with 
gorgeous  autumnal  foliage,  over  yon  solitary  stone  house  and  along  the  level 
space,  when  two  figures  came  hither  with  spades  in  their  hands. 

They  were  rough  men,  embrued  in  life-long  deeds  of  blood,  but  as  they 
sunk  two  holes  in  the  sod,  with  the  distance  of  a  few  feet  between,  they 
were  at  first  silent ;  then  a  scalding  drop  of  moisture  stole  from  the  eyes  of 
that  rough  man,  while  his  comrade  cursed  him  for  crying,  as  his  own  eye 
was  wet  with  a  tear. 

It  must  have  been  a  dark  matter  indeed  to  make  men  like  these,  shed  tears. 

When  those  holes  were  dug,  then  they  brought  two  thick  pieces  of 
scpntling,  and  placed  them  in  the  cavities  ;  then  another  piece  at  the  top 
connected  these  upright  timbers  ;  and  last  of  all,  a  rope  was  brought,  and 
then  behold — the  GALLOWS! 

It  was  around  this  gallows  as  the  hour  of  noon  came  on,  that  a  dense 


22:4  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

crowd  gathered.  There  were  blue  and  gold  uniforms,  and  there  the  brown 
dress  of  the  farmer.  That  high-browed  man,  whom  you  see  yonder, 
among  the  crowd  of  officers,  bears  the  great  name,  which  the  nation  always 
loved  to  repeat — Alexander  Hamilton. 

It  is  noon— and  look !  From  yonder  stone-house  comes  a  young  man, 
in  a  magnificent  scarlet  uniform ;  a  young  man,  with  glossy  brown  hair  and 
a  deep  hazel  eye. 

As  he  comes  through  the  lane,  made  by  the  parting  of  the  crowd,  you 
can  see  that  cart  moving  slowly  at  his  heels  ;  that  cart  in  which  crouches  a 
grim  figure,  sitting  on  a  pine  box,  with  crape  over  its  face. 

Does  this  spectacle  interest  you  ?  Then  look  in  that  young  man's  face, 
and  behold  the  Knight  of  the  Tournament.  When  we  beheld  him  last,  a 
fair  lady  dropped  laurel  on  his  brow,  a  chaplet  of  laurel  and  roses.  To 
day,  that  grim  figure  will  crown  him  with  a  chaplet  of  death  ! 

He  draws  near  the  foot  of  the  gallows.  For  a  moment,  he  stands,  roll 
ing  over  a  little  stone  with  his  foot,  as  he  tries  to  smother  that  choking  sen 
sation  in  his  throat. 

There  is  silence  in  that  crowd. 

Look !  the  cart  waits  for  him  under  the  dangling  rope — that  grim  figure 
lays  the  pine  coffin  upon  the  ground — and  then  binds  his  arms  lightly  with 
a  handkerchief. 

The  silence  is  deeper. 

Now  the  young  man  turns  very  pale.  With  his  half-pinioned  arms,  he 
arranges  the  frill  of  the  ruffle  around  his  wrist ;  he  binds  the  handkerchief 
over  his  face. 

Oh,  father  of  souls,  that  look !  Yes,  ere  he  winds  the  handkerchief 
around  his  brow,  he  casts  one  glance,  one  deep  and  yearning  look  over  the 
faces  of  men,  the  river,  the  sky,  the  mountains. 

That  look  is  his  farewell  to  earth ! 

Why  do  those  stout  men  cry  like  little  children  ?  Heads  bowed  on  their 
breasts,  faces  turned  away,  showering  tears — the  sun  shines  on  them  all. 

The  young  man  leaps  lightly  into  the  cart — Does'n't  it  make  your  blood 
run  cold  to  see  the  rough  hangman  wind  that  rope  around  his  neck,  so  fair, 
so  like  a  woman's  ? 

Now,  there  is  silence,  and  tears,  and  veiled  faces,  in  that  crowd. 

— At  this  moment  let  us  look  yonder,  in  that  quiet  room,  away  in  Eng 
land.  A  mother  and  two  fair  sisters  sit  there,  embroidering  a  scarf,  for  the 
eon  and  brother,  who  is  now  in  a  far  land. 

"  Hark  !"  exclaims  the  dark-haired  sister  ;  "  it  is  not  his  footstep  ?" 

And  as  she  goes  to  the  door,  trembling  with  suspense  and  joy,  and  looks 
out  for  her  brother — Here,  that  brother  stands,  upon  the  death-cart,  with 
the  hangman's  rope  about  his  neck  ! 

Even  as  the  sister  looks  forth  from  her  home,  to  behold  his  form  — - 


THE   KNIGHT    OF    THE   MESCHIANZA.  223 

Ah,  at  the  very  moment  the  hangman  speaks  to  his  horse,  the  cart  moves 
on — look  ' 

There  is  a  human  being  dangling  at  the  end  of  a  rope,  plunging  and 
quivering  in  the  air.  Behold  it,  nor  shudder  at  the  sight  !  .  That  black 
ened  face,  livid,  blue,  purple  at  turns,  those  starting  eyes,— Oh,  hide  the 
horrid  vision  !  What,  hide  the  Poetry  of  the  Gallows  ? 

Hide  it  you  may,  but  still  the  "thick,  gurgling  groan  of  that  dying  man 
breaks  on  your  ear. 

That  is  the  Music  of  the  Gallows. 

Ah,  can  that  loathsome  corse,  with  the  distorted  face,  can  that  be  the 
gallant  Knight  who  fell  at  the  feet  of  the  lovely  girl,  in  the  gay  Tournament? 

While  he  hangs  quivering  on  the  gallows,  yonder  in  New  York,  before  a 
glittering  mirror,  stands  Benedict  Arnold,  surveying  his  proud  form,  attired 
for  the  first  time,  in  that  hangman's  dress — a  scarlet  uniform. 

Yonder — even  while  the  last  tremor  shakes  his  form — yonder,  alone, 
kneels  George  Washington,  in  prayer  with  his  God. 

And  now,  as  they  thrust  his  young  form — scarcely  cold — into  the  pine 
coffin,  his  mother  and  sisters,  in  that  far  English  town,  have  done  embrodi- 
ering  the  scarf — nay,  that  one  dark-eyed  sister  has  even  worked  his  name 
in  the  corner — 

**  MY  BROTHER         *         *         *         *         JOHN  ANDRE." 


From  that  Gibbet  of  John  Andre,  the  fairest  flowers  of  Poetry  and 
Romance  wave  fragrantly  from  the  night  of  ages. 

Around  that  hideous  thing  of  evil,  whose  blackened  timbers  rise  before 
us  from  the  twilight  of  sixty-seven  years,  are  clustered  the  brightest  and 
the  darkest  memories,  like  a  mingled  crowd  of  fiends  and  angels. 

His  fate  was  very  dark,  yet  on  the  very  darkness  of  the  cloud  that  hung 
over  his  setting  sun,  his  name  has  been  written  in  characters  of  light. 

All  that  can  melt  the  heart  in  pathos,  all  that  can  make  the  blood  run 
cold  in  tragedy,  scenes  of  tender  beauty,  memories  of  immeasurable  horror, 
are  grouped  beside  the  dishonored  grave  of  John  Andre. 

A  volume  might  be  filled,  with  the  incidents  connected  with  his  closing 
hour  ;  the  long  winter  night  passed  unheeded  away,  ere  the  narrator  could 
tell  but  half  the  Legends  that  hover  round  his  tomb. 

There  was  that  in  his  fate,  which  made  his  friends  stand  palzied  with 
horror,  his  very  enemies  shed  tears  for  him.  The  contempt,  which  all 
honorable  men  feel  for  one  who  undertakes  the  lacquey  work  of  Treason, 
and  plays  the  part  of  a  SPY,  was  lost  in  the  unmeasured  scorn  which  all 
men  felt  for  Benedict  Arnoh.. 

Behold  the  Legends  that  hover  above  the  grave  of  Andre  the  Spy 


224  BENEDICT    ARNOLD 


XVII.— JOHN    CHAMPB. 

A  SOFT  voluptuous  light  pervaded  that  luxurious  chamber. 

It  was  the  night  of  November  Second,  1780.  The  mansion  was  one 
of  the  most  magnificent  in  the  New  York  of  that  day.  It  stood  in  a 
garden,  planted  with  vines  and  flowers.  Near  this  garden  a  dark  alley  led 
to  the  river. 

The  vines  and  flowers  were  withered  now.  The  night  was  dark,  and 
the  spacious  mansion  lay  wrapt  in  shadow.  There  were  dim  shadowy 
figures  moving  along  the  darkness  of  the  alley.  Yet  from  a  single  window, 
through  the  closed  curtains,  the  warm  gleam  of  a  light  flashed  over  the 
deserted  garden. 

In  the  centre  of  this  chamber,  stood  a  beautiful  woman,  her  form  clad  in 
a  habit  of  black  velvet,  her  dark  hair  laid  plainly  back  from  her  clear 
forehead. 

As  the  light  falls  over  that  form — one  hand  laid  upon  the  table,  the 
fingers  touching  a  parchment — while  the  other  clasps  the  bosom,  heaving 
through  its  dark  vestment,  let  us  gaze  upon  this  beautiful  woman,  and  ask 
the  cause  of  her  lonely  watch  ? 

The  chamber  is  elegantly  furnished.  The  gorgeous  carpet  was  woven 
in  a  Turkish  loom,  the  massive  chairs  are  cushioned  with  crimson  velvet, 
the  wainscot  blooms  with  fruits  and  flowers,  carved  from  the  forest  oak. 
The  lamp  standing  on  the  table,  its  warm  light  softened  and  refined  by  a 
shade  of  clouded  glass,  is  upheld  by  a  sculptured  figure  of  Apollo.  The 
hangings  of  dark  crimson  velvet  depending  along  these  windows,  their  folds 
presenting  masses  of  light  and  shade,  are  worthy  the  hall  of  a  Prince. 

In  yonder  corner  from  a  shadowy  niche,  the  marble  form  of  the  Medicean 
Venus  steals  gently  on  you.  Beautiful  in  its  spotless  whiteness,  this  image 
of  womanly  loveliness,  with  the  averted  head,  the  gently  bending  form,  the' 
half-raised  hands  steals  softly  on  your  eye,  like  a  glimpse  from  Eden. 

And  the  living  woman,  who  stands  by  the  table  there,  her  tall  form  clad 
in  dark  velvet,  impresses  you  with  her  strange  wild  beauty,  more  than  all 
the  statues  in  the  world. 

Do  you  mark  the  bosom  heaving  from  its  vestment  ?  The  alabaster  of 
that  rounded  neck,  contrasted  with  the  black  velvet  which  encircles  it  ? 
The  falling  symmetry  of  the  waist,  contrasted  wifti  the  ripe  fulness  of  the 
other  part  of  her  figure  !  The  foot  protruding  from  the  folds  of  the  habit, 
small  and  delicate,  cased  in  a  satin  slipper  and  beating  with  an  impetuous 
motion  against  the  carpet  ? 

The  form  bewilders  you  with  its  impetuous  loveliness,  but  the  taco 
startles  you  with  the  conflict  of  passions,  impressed  on  every  outline. 

The  bloom  of  the  cheeks,  the  love  of  the  warm  lips,  the  melting  softness 


JOHN    CHAMPE.  225 

of  the  dark  eyes,  are  all  lost  in  a  pale  fixed  expression  of  resolulp  despair. 
Yes,  there  is  Despair  written  on  that  beautiful  countenance,  but  Revenge 
glares  in  the  deadly  fire  of  those  dark  eyes.  The  white  brow  is  deformed 
by  a  hideous  wrinkle,  that,  black  and  swollen,  swells  upward  to  the  roots 
of  the  hair. 

Who  is  this  woman  so  pale  in  the  face,  so  voluptuous  in  the  form,  now 
waiting  alone  in  this  silent  chamber  ? 

Her  hand  rests  upon  a  letter,  inscribed  with  the  name  of — Benedict 
Arnold. 

That  sword  resting  on  the  table,  with  the  dented  edge  and  battered  hilt, 
is  the  sword  of  Quebec  and  Saratoga. 

The  blue  uniform  thrown  carelessly  over  the  arm  of  the  chair,  is  the 
costume  of  a  Continental  hero.  Wherefore  are  sword  and  uniform  thrown 
neglectedly  aside,  in  this  luxurious  room  ? 

It  is  the  apartment  of  Benedict  Arnold.  He  does  not  wield  that  sword, 
or  wear  that  uniform  any  longer.  He  is  a  Traitor,  and  makes  his  home 
here  in  the  city  of  New  York,  in  this  spacious  mansion. 

The  sound  of  a  bell  disturb?  the  silence  ;  it  tolls  the  hour  of  twelve. 

The  beautiful  woman  is  still  there,  her  bosom  fluttering  with  those 
pulses  of  revenge,  which  resemble  the  throbbings  of  love,  as  the  lurid  torch 
of  the  assassin  resembles  the  soft  sad  light  of  the  moon. 

Presently  raising  her  dark  eyes,  she  unfastens  the  gold  button  that  rises 
with  each  throb  of  her  heart.  She  uncovers  that  bosom,  now  the  home  of 
hideous  passion.  She  draws  forth  not  a  love-letter,  nor  yet  the  lock  of  a 
lover's  hair,  but  a  glittering  and  pointed  dagger. 

Grasping  that  dagger  with  her  small  hand,  while  the  lines  of  strange 
emotion  are  drawn  more  darkly  over  her  face,  she  speaks  in  a  hollow 
voice : 

"  If  the  plot  fails,  this  must  do  the  work  of  my  love  and  my  revenge  !" 

Then  sinking  in  the  arm-chair,  this  woman  overcome  by  her  emotion, 
lets  the  dagger  fall,  and  bursts  into  tears. 

O,  that  agony  of  a  heart  that  loved  so  truly,  hoped  so  madly,  and  then 
lived  to  see  both  love  and  hope  turned  to  hatred  and  despair,  by  the  hand 
of  death  ! 

Is  this  the  wife  of  Arnold  ?  Gaze  on  her  dark  eyes  and  black  hair,  and 
remember  that  the  hair  of  the  wife  waves  in  flakes  of  sunshine  gold,  that 
her  eyes  are  summer  blue.  Is  it  his  Ladye-love  ?  The  thought  is  vain. 
Say  rather,  as  you  behold  the  bosom  torn  by  fiery  passions,  the  eyes  dart 
ing  the  magnetic  rays  of  revenge,  the  dagger  gleaming  death  from  its  keen 
blade,  that  this  lovely  woman  waiting  alone  in  his  most  secret  chamber,  is 
his  EXECUTIONER  ! 

"You  observe  the  chain,  with  its  slender  links  of  gold  falling  from  die 
neck,  into  the  shadowy  recess  of  her  bosom.  She  raises  the  chain  ;  a  mm- 


226  BENEDICT   ARNOLD 

iature  is  revealed ;   the  portrait  of  a  gallant  cavalier  with  hazel  e)  es,  and 
locks  of  dark  brown  hair. 

"  So  young, 'so  gallant,  so  brave  !  The  last  time  he  pressed  my  hand 
le  last  time  his  kiss  melted  on  my  lips  !  O,  God,  shall  I  ever  forget  it  ? 
And — now " 

As  the  hideous  picture  broke  in  all  its  details  upon  her  brain,  she  started 
to  her  feet,  grasping  the  dagger  once  more  with  a  hand  that  knew  no  tremor. 

She  heard  the  sound  of  a  footstep  echoing  from  afar,  through  the  cor 
ridors  of  the  mansion.  Bending  her  head  to  one  side,  she  listened,  as  her 
lips  parted  and  her  eyes  dilated. 

She  then  approached  the  window.  The  rope-ladder  which  had  gained 
her  admittance,  was  still  confined  beneath  the  sash.  A  dark  object  touched 
her  feet ;  it  was  her  velvet  mantle,  concealing  a  precious  relic  of  the  dead, 
the  warrior  costume  of  one  loved  and  lost. 

She  shrouds  herself  within  that  voluminous  curtain.  Shrouded  from  the 
light  within,  and  the  profane  gaze  without  by  this  impenetrable  veil,  she 
loosens  the  fastenings  of  her  dress,  while  her  bosom  freed  from  those  velvet 
folds,  soars  more  tumultuously  upward.  Another  moment,  and  her 
woman's  costume  flutters  from  her  form.  You  hear  a  sob,  a  sigh,  a  mut 
tered  word,  and  stepping  from  the  curtain's  shadow,  this  beautiful  woman 
comes  once  more  toward  the  light,  attired 

Tn  the  silken  robes  of  a  queen  ? 

Or,  in  the  majesty  of  her  own  loveliness  ? 

No !     She  stands  before  us  attired  as  a  young  and  gallant  cavalier. 

From  those  white  shoulders  descends  a  red  coat,  with  wide  skirts  and 
facings  of  gold.  The  bosom  is  veiled  beneath  a  vest  of  finest  doe-skin, 
which  falls  in  loose  folds  around  the  waist.  Cambric  ruffles  hide  the  white 
ness  of  the  throat,  while  each'  elegantly  moulded  limb  is  encased  in  a  war. 
rior's  boot.  Those  dark  tresses  are  covered  with  a  gay  chapeau,  heavy 
with  lace  and  waving  with  plumes. 

Beautiful  in  her  woman's  costume,  but  most  bewitching  as  a  gallant 
cavalier ! 

You  now  gaze  upon  the  movements  of  the  disguised  woman  with  deep 
ening  interest. 

She  listens — the  echo  of  that  footstep  grows  near  and  near.  Gazing  on 
the  mahogony  panels  of  the  folding  door,  the  lady  sinks  in  the  arm  chair 
Her  position  is  peculiar.  The  head  bowed,  the  cheek  laid  on  the  hand, 
the  face  averted,  she  awaits  the  approach  of  the  Unknown,  with  statue-like 
immovability. 

As  she  sits  there,  with  the  light  playing  downward  over  her  form — the 
ohapeau  hiding  her  face  in  shadow — tell  me,  what  strange  resemblance  chills 
you  with  an  involuntary  horror  ? 

This  beautiful  woman  resembles — O,  fearfully  resembles — a  young  and 
gallant  cavalier,  whose  hand  could  write  poetrv,  paint  pictures  or  wield  a 


JOHN    CHAMPE.  227 

sword,  whose   foot  sprung   as  lightly  toward   the  cannon's    muzzle,  as   it 
bounded  in  the  dance. 

But  what  young  and  gallant  cavalier. 

You  dare  not  repeat  his  name  !  A  sickening  tragedy  crowds  on  your 
memory,  as  that  name  arises  !  The  image  of  a  handsome  form,  hidden 
oeneath  clods  of  clay,  the  worms  revelling  over  its  brow,  the  taint  of  the 
gibbet's  rope  about  its  neck  ! 

How  the  heart  of  that  woman  beats,  as  she  hears  that  foot ! 

"  He  comes  !"  she  murmurs,  still  preserving  that  strange  position — 
"  Murderer  and  Traitor,  he  comes  !  At  the  dead  hour  of  midnight,  to  his 
most  secret  chamber,  he  comes,  to  lay  his  plans  of  ambition  and  plot  new 
treasons  !  But  here,  in  the  silence  of  this  room*  where  his  guilty  heart  can 
find  no  refuge  from  its  remorse,  here,  placing  his  foot  on  yonder  threshhold, 
he  will  feel  his  blood  curdle  with  horror,  as  he  beholds,  seated  at  his  table, 
waiting  for  him,  the  form  of  the  murdered — JOHN  ANDRE  !" 

You  will  confess  with  me,  that  the  revenge  of  this  impetuous  woman  is 
terrible. 

44  Arnold  !     That  sight  should  blast  you  into  madness  !" 

Nearer — nearer  yet,  the  sound  of  that  step  is  heard.  The  woman  trem 
bles.  There  is  a  hand  upon  the  door — she  hears  the  step  on  its  opposite 
side.  Still  that  statue-like  position — still  the  endeavor  to  hide  the  anguish 
of  the  heart,  by  laying  one  hand  upon  the  swelling  bosom. 

The  door  opens.  The  disguised  woman  hears  the  footstep  cross  the 
threshhold.  Is  it  a  warrior's  footstep  ?  Too  light,  two  soft,  too  delicate  ! 
She  does  not  raise  her  head  to  look,  but  suddenly  the  sound  of  that  stealthy 
tread  is  lost  in  silence. 

There,  slightly  advanced  from  the  shadows  of  the  threshhold,  stands — 
the  appalled  form  of  Benedict  Arnold  ?  No  ! 

No  !  Would  that  it  were  !  But  there,  disclosed  by  the  light,  stands  a 
young  woman,  her  blooming  form  clad  in  a  loose  robe,  her  unfastened  hair 
drooping  to  her  uncovered  shoulders. 

You  see  her  blue  eyes  centred  on  the  figure  by  the  table.  At  that  sight 
the  roses  wither  on  her  cheek — her  bosom  bounds  from  its  slight  covering. 
Her  uplifted  arm,  grasping  a  bed-room  candle,  is  palzied — her  lips  slowly 
part — unable  to  advance  or  retreat,  she  stands  before  you,  a  picture  of  unut 
terable  anguish. 

At  last  she  gathers  courage  to  speak — to  address  the  Phantom. 

44  Andre  speak  to  me  !"  she  gasps. 

At  that  voice,  the  disguised  woman  feels  her  blood  grow  cold.  Slightly 
turning  her  face,  she  gazes  on  the  woman  with  golden  hair,  between  the 
fingers  of  her  right  hand. 

44  Andre  !"  again  the  voice  of  the  horror-stricken  woman  is  heard — "  You 
come  from  the  grave  to  haunt  me  !  Speak — O,  speak  to  me  !  (  or  id  I 


228  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

aelp  it,  if  your  fate  was  so  dark  and  cold?  Your  death  so  hideous  ?  Yoia 
grave  so  dishonored  ?" 

The  woman  clad  in  the  attire  of  John  Andre  slowly  rises.  She  turns, 
and  flinging  the  chapeau  aside,  confronts  the — Wife  of  Arnold. 

Yes,  the  lady-love  of  John  Andre,  confronts  the  wife  of  his  Evil  Genius, 
Benedict  Arnold. 

You  will  remember  that  this  Wife,  when  a  blooming  virgin,  once  in  the 
-evelry  of  a  Tournament,  crowned  John  Andre  with  a  chaplet  of  laurel  and 
roses,  that  she  corresponded  with  him  some  months  after  her  marriage, 
that  in  her  letters,  the  letters  of  Arnold  to  Sir  Henry  Clinton  were  envel 
oped,  that — perchance — from  her  girlhood  memories, — perchance — from 
deeper  reasons — he  was  dear  to  her  heart ! 

Therefore,  you  will  understand,  that  this  meeting  in  the  secret  chamber 
of  Arnold,  was  a  strangely  interesting  scene. 

The  lady-love  of  the  Spy — the  Wife  of  the  Traitor  !  Behold  them  sur 
vey  each  other.  The  wife  s-weeps  back  her  golden  tresses  from  her  brow, 
as  if  to  gaze  more  clearly  upon  the  Disguised  woman.  The  lady-love 
stands  erect,  in  her  voluptuous  beauty,  a  mocking  smile  upon  her  lip,  a  fiend- 
like  scorn  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"  Virginia  De  *****»"  exclaimed  the  Wife,  breathing  a  name  renowned 
for  virtue,  wealth  and  beauty — "  You  here  !  In  the  chamber  of " 

44 1  await  your  husband,  madam  !"  replied  the  strange  woman,  laying  her 
hand  upon  the  dagger,  and  a  deadly  light  blazed  from  her  dark  eyes. 

At  this  moment  a  sound  is  heard,  like  the  raising  of  a  window.  A  shadow 
steals  from  the  curtains,  approaches  the  light,  and  you  behold  the  form  of  a 
Soldier,  clad  in  scarlet  uniform. 

He  surveys  the  two  women,  and  unfastening  his  coat,  reveals  the  blue 
and  buff  Continental  uniform.  His  features  are  concealed  by  a  veil  of  dark 
crape. 

44  Is  all  ready  ?"  whispered  the  lady  disguised  in  the  attire  of  Andre  ; 
44  The  Traitor  is  not  yet  come.  But  there,  you  behold  his  wife.  It  is  well, 
She  shall  behold  his  Punishment !" 

And  as  the  Wife  shrank  back  appalled,  there  commenced  in  that  lonely 
chamber  of  Arnold,  a  scene  of  wild  interest. 

This,  you  will  remember,  was  on  the  night  of  November  Second,  1780. 

Andre  had  been  captured  some  forty-two  days  before,  on  the  twenty- 
third  of  September. 

We  will  now  reveal  to  you,  a  scene  which  took  place  but  a  few  days 
after  his  capture. 

Alone  in  his  marque',  on  the  heights  of  Tappan,  sat  General  Washington 
his  sword  placed  on  the  table,  which  was  covered  with  piles  of  papers. 
He  was  writing. — Not  often  was  his  face  disturbed  by  emotion,  but  a» 


JOHN    CHAMPE.  229 

this  still  I  our — while  the  stars  came  shining  out  above  the  mountains  and 
over  the  river — his  entire  form  was  shaken  by  a  powerful  agitation. 

As  the  light  streamed  upon  his  face,  his  lips  were  compressed,  his  eye 
brows  drawn  downward,  his  eyes  wet  with  moisture. 

It  was  plainly  to  be  seen,  that  the  sense  of  a  severe  duty,  to  be  performed 
by  him,  was  struggling  with  the  softer  feelings  of  his  heait.  Still  he  wrote 
on.  Still,  combatting  the  writhings  of  his  breast,  he  committed  his  thoughts 
to  paper. 

Presently  a  shadow  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  tent. 

Do  you  behold  that  form  ?  That  is  one  of  the  most  renowned  Knights 
of  the  Revolution.  Yes,  this  young  man,  whose  slight  form  is  clad  in  a 
green  coat,  with  pistols  in  his  girdle,  and  a  trooper's  sword  by  his  side,  is 
a  true  Knight,  who  loves  danger  as  a  brother,  and  plays  with  sword  and 
bayonet  as  though  he  thought  Death  itself  a  pastime. 

His  face  is  swarthy  and  freckled,  his  eyes,  dark  grey,  and  piercing  as  a 
dagger's  point.  *  Jlis  frame  is  very  slight,  and  yet  you  see  in  every  outline 
the  traces  of  an  iron  will,  a  knightly  daring. 

Washington  gazes  upon  him  with  pride,  for  that  young  man  has  played 
sad  tricks  in  his  time,  with  the  good  soldiers  of  King  George. 

Sometimes,  in  the  hour  of  battle,  when  the  British  thought  the  Rebrls 
altogether  beaten,  aye,  when  their  legions  drove  the  Continentals  from  the 
field,  like  sheep  before  the  wolf,  this  young  man,  would  dart  from  the  covert 
of  a  thicket,  and  write  his  mark  upon  their  faces.  He  came  not  alone,  you 
will  remember.  Eighty  iron  forms,  mounted  on  sinewy  steeds,  were  wont 
to  follow  at  his  back,  with  eighty  swords  flashing  above  their  heads.  And 
the  way  they  came  down  upon  the  British,  was  beautiful  to  see,  for  each 
trooper  marked  his  man,  and  that  mark  always  left  a  dead  body  beneath 
the  horse's  hoofs. 

There  was  not  a  soldier  in  the  British  army  who  did  not  know  this 
young  man.  He  was  so  unmannerly  ! 

They  sometimes,  after  having  plundered  an  American  farm-house,  and 
murdered  a  few  dozen  farmers,  would  gather  round  a  comfortable  fire,  for  a 
quiet  meal.  But  then,  the  blaze  of  rifles  would  flash  through  the  shutters, 
the  door  would  give  way,  and  this  Young  Man,  with  his  troopers,  would 
come  in,  rather  rudely,  and  eat  the  meal  which  the  British  had  prepared. — 
You  may  be  sure  that  he  took  good  care  of  these  red  coat  gentlemen,  before 
eating  their  supper. 

Still  he  was  a  glorious  young  man  !  You  should  have  seen  him,  on 
some  dark  night,  scouring  a  darker  road,  at  the  head  of  his  men,  and  march 
ing  some  fifty  miles  without  once  pulling  a  bridle  rein,  so  that  he  might 
pay  his  regards  to  his  dear  friends,  the  British  ! 

Then,  how  he  crashed  into  their  camp,  making  sweet  music  with  his 
eighty  swords  ! 


830  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

He  loved  the  British  so,  that  he  was  never  happy,  unless  he  was  near 
them. 

Oftentimes,  in  the  hour  of  battle,  Washington  would  turn  to  La  Fayette, 
and  pointing  with  his  sword,  far  down  the  shadows  of  a  defile,  observe  in  a 
quiet  way — "  The  Major  is  yonder !  Do  you  see  him,  at  the  head  of 
his  men  ?  Ah,  General,  it  does  one's  heart  good  to  see  him  pour  down 
upon  the  enemy,  when  they  think  he  is  a  hundred  miles  away  !" 

His  men  loved  their  captain  dearly.  It  mattered  not  how  dark  the  night, 
or  how  tired  with  the  previous  day's  toil,  or  how  starved  they  were,  let  the 
Major  once  whisper — '*  There  is  work  for  us,  my  friends  !"  and  ere  five 
minutes  passed,  eighty  horses  bore  eighty  men  on  their  way,  while  the 
stars  played  with  the  blades  of  eighty  swords. 

And  as  the  Men  of  that  hero-band  loved  their  captain,  so  the  horses  loved 
the  men, — That  man  who  does  not  love  his  horse,  even  as  a  comrade,  is  no 
warrior. — Gathered  like  the  Men  from  the  beautiful  hills  of  Carolina,  these 
horses  always  seemed  to  know  that  a  battle  was  near,  and  when  it  came 
dashed  with  erect  heads,  firm  front,  and  quivering  nostrils,  on  the  foe. 

Even  when  the  bullet  or  the  cannon  ball,  pierced  their  smooth  flanks, 
these  horses  would  crawl  on  while  life  lasted,  and  with  their  teeth  tear  the 
horses  of  the  enemy. 

Why  all  these  words  to  describe  the  chivalry  of  this  hero-band  1 

You  may  compress  courage,  honor  and  glory  in  three  words — THB 
LEGION  OF  LEE  ! 

Aye,  the  Legion  of  Lee,  for  it  was  their  Captain,  who  now  stood  uncov 
ered  in  the  presence  of  Washington. 

"  Major,"  said  Washington,  pointing  with  his  right  arm,  through  the 
door  of  the.  tent.  "  Look  yonder  !" 

The  Major  turned  and  looked — not  upon  the  beautiful  Hudson,  nor  the 
mountains — but  upon  a  small  stone  house,  which  arose  from  the  bosom  of 
the  sward. 

The  Major  understood  the  extended  finger  and  look  of  Washington. — In 
that  stone  house,  John  Andre  was  a  prisoner.  Taken  as  a  Spy,  he  would 
be  hung  on  a  felon's  gibbet. — 

"  Is  there  no  way  to  save  him  ?"  said  Lee,  in  a  voice  that  quivered  with 
emotion. 

"  There  is,"  said  Washington,  "  It  depends  upon  you  to  save  him,  and 
at  the  same  time,  save  the  honor  of  an  American  General !" 

Lee  started  with  surprise. 

"  On  me  ?"  he  echoed. 

"  You  behold  these  papers  ?  Intercepted  despatches  o'  the  enemy,  which 
implicate  one  of  our  bravest  general's  in  the  treason  of  Arnold  ?" 

Lee  glanced  over  the  papers  and  suffered  an  ejaculation  of  surprise  to 
pass  his  lips. 

"  Andre  has  your   sympathies  — '     said   Washington — "  So  voung,  so 


JOHN    CHAMPE.  231 

gallant,  so  chivalrous,  he  has  the  hearts  of  all  men  with  him.  And  yet 
unless  a  certain  thing  can  be  accomplished,  he  must  die.  Not  even  the 
death  of  a  soldier  will  be  awarded  him,  but  the  death  of  a  common  felon. 
You  can  save  him,  Major  Lee  !  You  can  rescue  the  name  of  this  General 
from  the  taint  of  Treason  !" 

And  thus  speaking,  that  Deliverer  Washington,  turned  the  eloquence  of 
his  face  and  eyes  full  upon  Major  Lee. 

Never  had  the  Knight  of  the  Legion  beheld  his  Chief  so  powerfully 
agitated. 

Lee  trembled  to  see  this  great  man — always  so  calm  and  impenetrable — 
now  affected  almost  to  tears. 

"  General,  speak  the  word  and  I  will  do  it  !"  exclaimed  the  Partizan, 
sharing  the  emotion  of  Washington. 

The  Chief  reveals  his  plan.  Why  is  it,  that  Lee  turns  pale  and  red  by 
turns,  knits  his  brows  and  clenches  his  hands,  and  at  last  falters  a  refusal  * 

But  Washington  will  not  be  denied.  Again  with  his  face  and  voice  all 
eloquent,  with  deep  emotion,  he  urges  the  enterprise. 

"  Andre  must  die  unless  you  consent.  There  is  no  hope  for  him  !  Every 
one  pities,  every  one  confesses  the  justice  of  his  doom  !  What  have  I 
neglected,  to  save  his  life  ?  No  sooner  was  his  capture  known  to  me,  than 
I  despatched  a  Special  messenger  to  Congress.  I  asked  the  counsel  of  my 
Generals.  I  questioned  my  own  heart,  I  besought  guidance  from  my  God  ! 
Behold  the  result!  My 'Generals  weep  for  him,  but  condemn.  Congress 
confirms  that  sentence.  The  struggle  of  my  own  soul,  and  my  prayers  to 
Heaven,  have  one  result.  This  young  man  must  pay  the  penalty  of  his 
crime,  and  die  a  felon's  death  '." 

Washington  passed  his  hand  over  his  brow,  as  with  every  feature  quiv 
ering  with  emotion,  he  surveyed  the  face  of  Lee. 

'*  And  all  this  you  may  avert !  You — Lee — whom  I  have  never  known 
to  falter — may  save  the  life  of  Andre  !" 

How  could  Major  Lee  refuse  ?  To  stand  and  hear  Washington,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  beseech  him  to  save  the  life  of  Andre  ! 

"  General,  1  consent !"  he  said,  in  a  voice  husky  with  emotion.  Wash 
ington  wrung  his  hand,  with  a  grasp  that  made  Lee's  heart  bound  within 
him. 

The  camp  of  Lee's  Legion  was  pitched  near  the  roadside,  in  the  shadows 
of  a  secluded  dell.  Their  white  tents  were  constrasted  with  the  dark  rocks 
all  around.  The  music  of  a  brook  rippled  on  the  silence  of  the  air.  From 
afar,  the  broad  river  flashed  in  the  light  of  the  stars. 

In  the  centre  of  the  encampment  arose  the  tent  of  Henry  Lee.  The 
furniture  of  that  tent  was  by  no  means  luxurious.  A  chest,  on  which  a 
flickering  candle  was  placed — a  narrow  bed — a  military  cloak — a  sword  and 
pair  of  pistols. 


232  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

Lee  was  seated  on  the  bed,  with  his  head  placed  between  his  hands 
But  a  half  an  hour  ago,  he  had  conversed  with  Washington,  and  now,  h« 
was  to  hold  a  similar  conversation  with  one  of  the  bravest  men  of  fcis  iron  band. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  heavy  footstep,  and  that  man  stood  before  him. 
It  must  be  confessed,  that  he  looked  the  Soldier  in  every  inch  of  his  form. 

Imagine  a  man  of  some  twenty-four  years,  somewhat  above  the  common 
aize,  with  a  bronzed  visage,  a  form  full  of  bone  and  muscle,  and  the  air  of  a 
soldier,  whom  danger  could  only  delight.  He  was  attired  in  a  green 
trooper's  coat,  breeches  of  buckskin,  and  long  boots  of  dark  leather.  A  pair 
of  pistols  hung  from  one  side  of  his  belt ;  a  long  and  ponderous  sword  from 
the  other. 

He  stood  before  Lee,  with  his  heavy  steel  helmet  faced  with  fur,  in  his 
right  hand. 

The  Major  surveyed  him  for  a  moment  with  a  look  of  admiration,  and 
then  stated  the  desperate  enterprize  in  all  its  details. 

The  brave  man  trembled,  shuddered,  and  grew  pale,  as  he  heard  the 
words  of  his  commander.  Yes,  Sergeant  John  Champe, — an  iron  man, 
who  had  never  known  fear — now  felt  afraid. 

No  words  can  depict  the  agony  of  that  half  hour's  interview. 

At  last,  as  Lee  bent  forward,  exclaiming,  "  Would  you  save  the  life  of 
Andre  ?"  Champe  hurried  from  the  tent. 

From  a  nook  among  the  bushes  he  led  forth  his  steed.  While  the  hel 
met,  drawn  over  his  brows,  shadowed  the  emotion  of  his  swarthy  visage 
from  the  light  of  the  rising  moon,  he  silently  flung  his  cloak  over  the  back 
of  the  horse,  tied  his  valise  to  the  saddle,  and  placed  his  orderly  book  within 
the  breast  of  his  coat. 

These  preparations  all  betokened  the  stern  composure  of  a  mind  bent 
on  a  desperate  deed. 

In  silence  he  led  the  horse  along  the  sward,  under  the  shadow  of  the 
thicket.  At  last,  emerging  into  the  light,  where  two  high  rocks,  overlook 
ing  the  road,  raised  their  brows  in  the  beams  of  the  moon,  he  placed  his 
hand  on  the  saddle,  and  laid  his  face  against  the  neck  of  his  steed.  His 
emotions  were  dark  and  bitter. 

The  beauty  of  that  horse's  proportions  was  revealed  in  the  calm,  clear 
light.  His  hue  was  dark  as  ink.  A  single  star  on  the  forehead  varied  the 
midnight  blackness  of  his  hide.  A  small  head,  a  sinewy  body,  supported 
by  light  and  elastic  limbs,  a  long  mane  and  waving  tail,  an  eye  that  softened 
as  it  met  it's  master,  or  glared  terribly  in  the  hour  of  battle — such  was  the 
horse  of  John  Champe,  the  renowned  Sergeant  Major  of  Lee's  Legion. 

That  horse  had  been  given  to  him  in  1776,  by  the  old  man,  his  father. 
Before  the  door  of  his  home,  in  a  green  valley  of  Loudon  county,  Virginia, 
the  white-haired  patriot  had  bestowed  this  parting  gift  to  his  son. 

••  John,  I  bid  you  good  bye  with  a  single  word  !  When  you  fight,  strike 
with  all  your  might — and  never  let  this  horse  bear  you  from  the  foe  !" 


JOHN    CHAMPE.  233 

And  now  this  Son,  blessed  by  his  Patriot  Father,  was  about  to  turn  the 
horse's  head  toward  the  British  Camp,  the  soidier,  praised  by  Washington 
arid  loved  by  Lee,  was  about  to  turn — DESERTER  ! 

He  had  never  groaned  in  battle,  but  now  he  uttered  a  cry  of  anguish,  as 
he  thought  of  that  fatal  word  ! 

"  You  have  borne  me  many  a  time,  old  Powhatan,  into  the  ranks  of  the 
foe  !  Now — now — you  must  bear  me  to  New  York — you  must  carry  the 
Deserter  into  the  enemy's  camp  !  Come — we  have  many  miles  to  travel — 
many  dangers  to  dare  !" 

This  horse, — known  by  his  master  as  POWHATAN — after  the  Indian  king 
— raised  his  head,  and  with  quivering  nostrils,  uttered  a  long  and  piercing 
neigh.  He  thought  that  he  was  about  to  bear  his  master  to  battle  !  What 
knew  he  of  that  word  of  scorn — Deserter? 

As  Champe  stood  beside  his  steed,  wrapped  in  deep  thought,  a  mass  of 
dark  clouds,  that  had  been  gathering  on  the  mountain  tops,  came  rolling 
over  the  moon.  From  an  aperture  in  the  black  mass,  a  parting  ray  of 
moonlight  streamed  down  upon  the  soldier  and  his  steed. 

All  around  was  dark,  yet  that  picture  stood  out  from  the  back-ground  of 
rocks,  in  strong  light — the  mounted  soldier,  his  horse  starting  forward,  as 
he  raised  his  hand  to  heaven,  with  the  moonbeams  on  his  writhing  face  ! 

The  horse  moved  onward  !  Champe  passed  the  boundary  of  the  camp, 
and  dashed  along  the  road.  The  thunder  growled  and  the  rain  fell.  Still 
down  into  the  shadows  of  the  road.  On  the  corner  of  a  projecting  rock, 
stood  a  Patrole  of  Lee's  band,  his  horse  by  his  side.  A  challenge — Who 
goes  there  ?  No  answer  !  The  crack  of  a  rifle  ! 

The  button  is  torn  from  the  breast  of  his  coat,  yet  still  Champe  the 
Deserter  dashes  on. 

The  rain  fell  in  large  drops,  sinking  heavily  into  the  roadside  dust.  From 
afar,  the  thunder  moaned,  its  sound  resembling  the  echo  of  huge  rocks,  pre 
cipitated  from  an  immense  height  over  an  inclined  plane  of  brass. 

Ere  half  an  hour  passed,  Captain  Carnes,  a  brave  and  somewhat  sangui 
nary  officer,  rushed  into  Lee's  tent,  with  a  pale  face  and  scowling  brow. 

Lee  was  on  his  couch,  but  not  asleep. 

"  Major,  a  soldier  has  just  passed  the  patrole,  and  taken  the  road  to  the 
enemy  !" 

**  What?"  cried  the  Partizan,  with  an  incredulous  smile—"  A  trooper  of 
Lee's  Legion  turn  Deserter  ?  Impossible  !" 

"  Not  only  a  trooper  of  the  Legion,"  cried  the  indignant  Captain,  "  But 
John  Champe,  the  bravest  of  the  band  !" 

"  John  Champe  desert  ?  By  Jove,  Major,  you  must  be  dreaming  !"  And 
Lee  turned  himself  to  sleep  again. 

But  the  Captain  would  not  be  denied.  Again  with  many  an  oath  and 
exclamation  of  contempt,  as  he  named  the  Sergeant,  he  stated  on  his  honor 
15 


234  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

that  Champe  had  been  seen  taking  the  route  to  Paulus  Kook,  opposite  the 
city  of  New  York. 

Lee  heard  this  information  with  deep  emotion.  He  could  not  believe  that 
Charnpe  would  desert.  The  idea  was  ridiculous  ;  some  mistake  had  hap 
pened  ;  he  wished  to  sleep,  for  he  was  fatigued  with  his  ride  to  head-quar 
ters  ;  in  fact,  half  an  hour  passed  before  Captain  Games  could  impress  the 
Partizan  with  the  fact,  that  one  of  his  bravest  men  had  gone  over  to  the 
British. 

At  last  Lee  arose,  and  sent  for  Cornet  Middleton,  a  man  of  stout  frame 
with  a  ruddy  face  with  light  brown  hair.  He  was  noted  for  the  mildness 
of  his  temper,  while  Carnes  was  fierce  to  cruelty. 

44  Cornet,  it  appears  that  Sergeant  Champe  has  taken  the  road  to  Paulus 
Hook.  Take  with  you  twenty  dragoons  and  pursue  him.  Bring  him 
alive — "  his  face  quivered  in  every  feature  as  he  spoke — «»  so  that  he  may 
suffer  in  presence  of  the  army  !  Kill  him  if  he  resists  ! — "  Every  nerve 
of  his  form  trembled  with  an  emotion,  the  cause  of  which  was  unknown 
to  the  bystanders — "  dye,  kill  him  if  he  resists,  or  escapes  after  being 
taken  /" 

Lee  was  now  alive  in  every  vein.  So  anxious  was  he,  that  the  Deserter 
should  be  taken,  that  he  spent  another  half  hour  in  giving  the  Cornet  direc 
tions  with  regard  to  the  pursuit. 

At  a  few  minutes  past  twelve,  Henry  Lee,  standing  near  the  door  of  his 
tent,  beheld  the  Cornet  and  his  Dragoons  gallop  forward,  their  swords  glit 
tering  in  the  light. 

As  the  last  man  disappeared,  Lee  entered  his  tent  and  flung  himself  upon 
the  couch. 

He  passed  that  night  like  a  man  under  sentence  of  death. 

All  the  mildness  of  his  nature  turned  to  gall,  by  this  flagrant  act  of 
Treachery  on  the  part  of  one  so  renowned  as  Champe,  the  Cornet  dashed 
along  the  road,  at  the  head  of  his  men.  Every  lip  was  clenched,  every 
brow  wore  a  scowl.  Woe  !  to  the  Deserter  if  he  encounters  these  iron 
men,  his  pursuers  and  executioners  ! 

They  hurried  on,  pausing  now  and  then  in  their  career,  to  examine  the 
print  of  hoofs,  stamped  in  the  dust  of  the  road.  The  moon  came  out  and 
revealed  these  traces  of  the  traitor's  career.  The  horse-shoes  of  the  Le 
gion  were  impressed  with  a  peculiar  mark.  The  recent  rain  settling  the 
dust,  left  each  foot-print  clear  and  distinct.  There  was  no  doubt  of  success  ; 
they  \\  ere  on  the  track  of  the  Deserter. 

Their  swords  clattering,  the  sound  of  their  horses'  hoofs  echoing  through 
the  wood,  they  dashed  on,  eager  for  the  blood  of  this  man,  who  lately 
shared  their  mess,  arid  fought  among  their  bravest. 

it  was  at  the  break  of  day  that  the  most  exciting  scene  took  place. 


JOHN    CHAMPE.  235 

Some  miles  to  the  north  ot  the  village  of  Bergen,  arose  a  high  hill  com 
inanding  a  view  of  the  road  far  to  the  south. 

Cornet  Middleton,  riding  at  the  head  of  his  men,  led  the  way  up  the  hill  ; 
a  wild  hurrah  broke  from  his  band. 

Half  a  mile  to  the  south,  they  beheld  the  black  horse,  his  sides  whitened 
with  foam  ;  they  beheld  the  Deserter,  with  his  head  turned  over  his  shoul 
der.  He  saw  them  come,  he  knew  his  doom  if  taken,  so,  digging  the  rowels 
into  the  flanks  of  his  steed,  he  bou-nded  away. 

It  was  a  splendid  sight  to  see  the  troopers  thundering  down  one  hill, 
while  Champe — alone,  desperate,  the  object  of  their  vengeance — excited  his 
horse  to  unnatural  efforts  of  speed,  in  ascending  the  opposite  hill. 

He  gained  the  summit,  looked  back,  uttered  a  hurrah  in  scorn,  and  was 
gone. 

On  the  brow  of  this  hill,  by  the  roadside,  arose  the  hotel  of  the  Three 
Pidgeons. 

The  Cornet  reined  his  steed  in  full  career  : 

"  Beyond  the  village  of  Bergen,  the  high  road  crosses  a  bridge,  which 
the  deserter  must  cross  in  order  to  reach  Paulus  Hook.  You  see  this  bye- 
road  on  your  left  ?  Sergeant  Thomas,  you  will  take  four  dragoons,  and 
gain  this  bridge  by  the  short-cut — conceal  yourselves — and  wait  the  ap 
proach  of  the  traitor — while  we  drive  him  into  the  ambush,  by  pursuing  the 
high  road  !" 

You  see  the  veteran  Thomas — whose  face  bears  the  marks  of  battles 
fought  amid  the  snows  of  Canada,  under  the  sun  of  Carolina — with  four 
dragoons  dash  into  the  shadows  of  the  bye-path,  while  the  Cornet  hurries 
on  in  the  high  road.  The  capture  of  the  deserter  is  now  certain. 

That  road-side  tavern  is  soon  left  behind.  Cornet  Middleton,  his  face 
flushed  with  the  fever  of  pursuit,  his  eye  fired  with  the  ardor  of  the  chase, 
points  the  way  with  his  sword,  speaks  to  his  horse  and  at  the  head  of  his 
band  thunders  on. 

For  a  moment  they  lose  sight  of  the  chase.  He — the  Deserter,  the 
Traitor — is  lost  to  view  behind  those  trees,  on  the  summit  of  yonder  hill. 
Now  he  bursts  into  light  again,  urging  his  black  horse  to  desperate  feats  : 
they  see  him  bending  forward,  they  see  the  noble  steed  dash  on  with  the 
speed  of  a  hurled  javelin,  while  the  white  foam  gathers  on  his  neck  and 
bathes  his  flanks. 

"  On,  my  comrades  !  We  must  secure  this  villain,  or  be  disgraced ! 
Only  think  of  it — one  of  Lee's  legion  a  deserter  !  The  honor  of  the  corps 
is  at  stake  !  Ha — ha — we  gain  on  him,  we  will  have  him,  aye,  before  the 
day  is  an  hour  older !  There  he  is  again — you  see  his  horse  is  tired,  he 
seems  about  to  fall !  On — on  my  boys  !  Through  the  village  of  Bergen, 
we  will  drive  him  toward  the  Bridge,  and  there,  ho,  ho  !  The  fox  ia 
caught — we  '11  be  in  at  the  death  !" 

The  music  of  those  rattling  bridles,  those  clanking  scabbards,  those  hoofi 


236  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

thundering  down  with  one  sound,  was  very  pleasant  to  hear.  But  those 
compressed  lips,  those  eyes  glaring  from  beneath  the  steel  frontlet  of  each 
trooper's  helm,  did  not  indicate  much  mercy  for  the  Deserter. 

But  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  front,  Champe  looked  over  his  shoulder,  and 
saw  them  come  !  Now  is  the  time  to  try  the  mettle  of  Powhatan !  Now 
— if  you  do  not  love  the  gibbet's  rope — make  one  bold  effort  and  secure 
your  neck,  by  gaining  Paulus  Hook  '. 

Champe  saw  them  come.  His  dark  face  assumed  a  ferocious  expression, 
his  eyes  shone  with  a  wild  intensity. 

"  On — on — Powhatan  !"  he  muttered,  while  the  blood  and  foam  streamed 
down  the  flanks  of  his  steed. 

Like  the  limb  of  a  tree,  rent  by  the  hurricane  and  hurled  along  the 
darkened  air,  Champe  dashed  into  the  old  town  of  Bergen,  and  was  lost  to 
view,  among  the  shadows  of  its  rustic  homes. 

Close  at  his  heels  followed  Middleton,  marking  the  traces  of  his  horse's 
hoofs,  winding  where  he  had  wound,  turning  where  he  had  turned — while 
the  dragoons  at  his  back,  preserving  a  death-like  silence,  began  to  feel  that 
the  crisis  of  the  chase  was  near. 

Suddenly  they  lose  all  traces  of  the  Deserter's  course.  Amid  these 
streets  and  lanes  he  has  doubled,  until  the  foot-tracks  of  his  horse  are  no 
longer  discernable. 

"  Never  mind,  my  boys  !  He  has  taken  the  road  to  Paulus  Hook — to 
the  bridge,  to  the  bridge  !" 

"  To  the  bridge !"  responded  the  sixteen  troopers,  and  away  they 
dashed. 

It  was  a  fine  old  bridge  of  massive  rocks  and  huge  timbers,  with  the 
waves  roaring  below,  and  forest  trees  all  about  it.  The  red  earth  of  the 
road  was  contrasted  with  autumn-dyed  forest  leaves  above. 

They  turn  the  bend  of  the  road,  they  behold  the  bridge.  Yes,  they 
have  him  now,  for  yonder,  reined  in  the  centre  of  the  road,  are  the  bold 
Sergeant  and  his  comrades.  Near  and  nearer  draws  Middleton  and  his 
band. 

Leaning  over  the  neck  of  his  steed,  he  shouts : 

"  You  have  him,  Sergeant  ?  Yes,  I  knew  it !  He  plunged  blind-fold 
into  the  trap  !" 

The  Sergeant  waves  his  sword  and  shouts,  but  they  cannot  distinguish 
his  words. 

Still  on  in  their  career,  until  with  one  sudden  movement  they  wheel  their 
steeds  upon  the  bridge. 

"  The  prisoner — where  is  he  ?"  thunder  sixteen  voices  in  chorus. 

"  He  is  not  here.  We  waited  for  him  but  he  came  not  this  way — " 
growled  the  old  Sergeant. 

With  a  burst  of  cries  and  oaths,  the  whole  band  wheel,  and  hasten  back 
to  the  village.  In  a  moment  dispersed  through  all  the  streets,  they  search 


JOHN    CHAMPE.  237 

for  the  foot-tracks  of  the  deserter.  The  villagers  roused  from  their  slum- 
oers  saw  him  pass — a  solitary  man,  with  despair  on  his  face,  urging  his 
steed  with  spur  and  bridle-rein' — but  cannot  tell  the  way  he  has  gone. 

The  search  is  tumultuous,  hurried,  intensely  interesting.  At  last  a 
Conner  s  cry  is  heard — 

"  Here  he  is  !     I've  found  his  track  !" 

And  ere  the  word  has  passed  from  his  lips,  another  trooper  points  with 
his  sword — 

"  Yonder,  look  yonder  !  On  the  road  to  Elizabeth  Town  Point,  he 
rides  !  Ah — he  has  tricked  us  !  Foiled  in  his  purpose  to  gain  Paulus 
Hook,  he  is  determined  to  make  at  once  for  the  Bay,  and  take  refuge 
a-board  the  British  galleys  !" 

And  there  on  the  road  to  the  Point,  they  beheld  their  chase.  He  must 
gain  the  shore  of  the  bay,  swim  to  the  British  galleys  or  be  taken  !  It  is 
his  last  hope. 

But  three  hundred  yards  of  beaten  road,  separates  the  pursuers  and  pur 
sued.  Only  that  space  of  red  earth,  between  John  Champe  and  the  Gal 
lows  !  Let  his  brave  steed  but  miss  his  footing,  or  stumble  for  an  instant, 
and  he  is  a  doomed  man. 

It  was  terrific  to  see  the  manner  in  which  they  dashed  after  him,  every 
horse  nerved  to  his  utmost  speed.  As  the  troopers  dug  the  rowels  into  the 
flanks  of  their  steeds,  they  drew  their  pistols. 

John  Champe  felt  that  the  crisis  of  his  fate  was  near.  Patting  gently  on 
the  neck  of  his  brave  horse,  whispering  encouragement  to  him  in  a  low 
tone,  he  looked  back  and  felt  his  heart  bound.  His  pursuers  had  gained 
fifty  yards — were  rapidly  nearing  him  ! 

As  this  fact  became  evident,  the  river,  the  city,  and  the  bay  broke  upon 
his  view  !  A  beautiful  city,  that  thrones  itself  amid  glorious  waters — a 
noble  river  rushing  from  its  mountain  fortress,  to  make  battle  with  the  sea 
— a  lordly  bay,  that  rolls  its  waters  from  island  to  island,  reflecting  on 
every  wave,  the  blue  autumnal  sky,  the  uprising  sun. 

It  was  a  beautiful  sight,  but  John  Champe  had  no  time,  no  eye  for  beau 
tiful  sights  just  now.  The  only  beauty  that  met  his  eye,  was  the  vision  of 
the  British  Galleys,  rising  and  falling  upon  the  waves,  within  pistol-shot  of 
shore.  The  fresh  breeze  played  with  the  British  flag,  and  tossed  it  gaily 
to  and  fro. 

John  beheld  the  galleys,  the  flag,  and  knew  the  moment  of  his  fate  had 
come. 

Let  us  look  upon  him  now,  as  three  hundred  yards  lie  between  him  and 
the  shore,  while  his  pursuers  are  within  two  hundred  yards  of  his  horse's 
heels. 

He  looked  back,  every  vein  of  his  face  swollen,  his  eyes  starting  from 
the  expanded  lids.  He  counted  the  number  of  his  pursuers.  Twenty 
men,  twenty  horses,  twenty  swords,  twenty  levelled  pistols  !  He  could  se* 


BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

me  morning  sun  glitter  on  their  buttons — yes,  their  faces  convulsed  with 
lage,  their  horses  with  quivering  nostrils,  were  there  clearly  and  distinctly, 
in  the  light  of  the  new-risen  day. 

But  two  hundred  yards  between  him  and  death  ! 

"  Yield  !"  shouted  Cornet  Middleton,  whose  white  horse  led  the  way — 
44  Yield,  or  you  die  !" 

Champe  turned  and  smiled.  They  could  see  his  white  teeth,  contrasted 
with  his  sun-burnt  face.  That  laugh  of  scorn  fired  their  blood.  Without  a 
shout,  without  an  oath,  they  crashed  along  the  road. 

The  movements  of  Champe  were  somewhat  peculiar. 

Even  in  that  moment  of  awful  suspense,  he  took  his  valise  and  lashed  it 
to  his  shoulders.  Then,  rising  magnificently  in  his  stirrups,  he  flung  away 
his  scabbard,  placed  the  sword  between  his  teeth,  and  threw  his  arms  on 
high,  grasping  a  pistol  in  each  hand. 

'*  Now,  come  on  !  Come — and  do  your  worst !"  he  said  in  a  voice, 
which  low-toned  and  deep,  was  yet  heard,  above  the  clatter  of  horse's 
hoofs. 

Even  now  I  see  him,  yes,  between  the  troopers  and  the  uprising  sun  ! 

That  hunted  man,  mounted  on  a  steed,  which  black  as  death,  moistens 
the  dust,  with  the  foam,  that  falls  in  flakes  from  its  sides,  that  miserable 
deserter,  rising  erect  in  his  stirrups,  the  sword  between  his  teeth,  a  pistol 
in  each  hand  ! 

44  Powhatan,  save  your  master  !  If  I  fall,  may  God  pity  my  mother— 
my  poor  father  !  A  Deserter,  rushing  to  the  shelter  of  the  British  flag  ! 
Help  !  Help  !  I  come  to  seek  the  protection  of  the  King  !" 

A  blue  smoke,  wound  upward  from  the  deck  of  each  galley — a  report 
like  thunder  startled  the  air. 

And  while  the  decks,  were  crowded  with  spectators,  while  the  pursuers, 
thundered  nearer  to  the  shore,  every  pistol,  emitting  a  volume  of  smoke 
and  flame,  that  lonely  man  on  his  black  horse,  held  on  his  dread  career. 

It  was  a  moment  of  fearful  interest. 

That  same  day,  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  a  wild  hurrah,  disturbed 
the  silence  of  Lee's  encampment. 

Lee,  sitting  alone,  his  whole  frame,  shaken  by  some  indefinable  emotion, 
heard  that  hurrah,  and  started  to  his  feet.  Rushing  hurridly  to  the  door  of 
his  tent,  he  beheld  a  group  of  dragoons,  dismounted,  surrounding  a  band  of 
mounted  men,  whose  trappings  were  covered  with  dust. 

In  the  midst  of  this  band,  a  riderless  steed,  with  a  cloak,  thrown  ovei 
the  saddle,  was  led  along,  exciting  the  attention  of  every  eye. 

Cornet  Middleton  and  his  band  had  returned.  That  horse,  wa&  the  steed 
of  John  Champe,  the  gallant  Powhatan. 

44  Joy,  Major — good  news  !"  cried  a  trooper  rushing  forward—  "  Th« 
Iroop  have  come  back  !  The  scoundrel's  killed  !" 


JOHN  CHAMPE.  239 

Lee  was  a  brave  man,  but  at  that  word — as  the  sight  of  the  riderless 
horse,  met  his  eye — a  sudden  faintness  came  over  him.  He  grasped  the 
tent-pole,  and  grew  very  pale. 

"  Killed  did  you  say  ?"  he  cried  in  a  tone  of  wringing  emphasis — 
"  Champe  killed  ?  My  God,  it  cannot — cannot  be  true  !" 

The  trooper  was  thunder-stricken,  with  astonishment,  as  he  beheld,  the 
sorrow  painted  on  the  Major's  face.  Sorrow  for  a  traitor,  grief  for  the 
death  of  a — deserter  ! 

Let  us  return  to  the  chase. 

It  was  the  crisis  of  the  Deserter's  fate. 

A  pistol  bullet,  tore  a  button  from  his  breast,  as  he  reached  the  bank. 

His  pursuers  were  not  fifty  yards  behind  him. 

As  his  noble  horse,  stood  trembling  on  the  shore,  recoiling  on  his 
haunches,  while  the  sweat  and  foam,  streamed  down  his  sides,  Champe 
turned  his  head  to  his  pursuers — beheld  them  come  on — saw  their  pistols 
levelled  once  more — and  in  a  moment  was  wrapt  in  a  cloud  of  smoke. 

When  that  cloud  cleared  away,  a  riderless  horse,  dashed  wildly  along  the 
bank.  Is  he  killed  ?  The  eyes  of  the  British  on  the  galley-decks,  the 
glances  of  the  troopers,  who  scatter  along  the  shore,  all  search  for  the  corse 
of  the  traitor. 

From  the  shore,  for  fifty  yards  or  more,  extends  a  dreary  march  of  reeds. 
You  see  their  tops  wave,  as  though  a  serpent  was  trailing  its  way  over  the 
oozy  mud,  you  see  a  head  upraised,  and  then  the  sound  of  a  heavy  body, 
falling  into  the  water  is  heard. 

Look  once  again,  and  look  beyond  the  marsh,  and  see  that  head,  rising 
above  the  waves,  those  arms  dashing  the  spray  on  either  side. 

It  is  John  Champe,  swimming  with  sword  in  his  teeth,  towards  the 
nearest  galley. 

Middleton  and  his  troopers,  gaze  upon  him,  from  the  bank,  in  dismay, 
while  the  Commander  of  the  galley,  surrounded  by  sailors  and  soldiers, 
encourages  the  deserter  with  shouts. 

An  old  trooper  of  the  Legion  kneels.  He  carries  a  rifle — a  delicate 
piece,  with  stock  mounted  in  silver — at  his  back,  suspended  by  a  leather 
strap.  He  unslings  it,  examines  the  lock,  takes  the  aim.  Old  Holford, 
has  been  in  the  Indian  wars;  he  can  snuff  a  candle  at  a  hundred  yards. 
Therefore  you  may  imagine,  the  deep  interest,  with  which  the  other  troop 
ers  regarded  him,  as  raising  the  rifle,  he  levelled  it,  at  the  head,  appearing 
above  the  waters. 

John  Champe  may  look  his  last  upon  God's  beautiful  sky  ! 

Yes,  as  the  sword  in  his  teeth,  gleams  in  the  sun,  Old  Holford  fires.  At 
the  same  instant  a  heavy  volume  of  smoke  and  flame,  rolls  from  the 
galleys  ;  certain  missiles  make  an  unpleasant  hissing  over  the  trooper'i 
heads. 


240  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

When  the  smoke  rolls  away,  the  troopers  look  for  the  corse  of  the 
doomed  man,  writhing  its  last,  ere  it  sinks  forever. 

But  the  Commander  of  the  Galley,  reaching  forth  his  arm,  grasps  the 
hand  of  John  Champe — whose  cheek  bleeds  from  the  touch  of  a  bullet — 
and  assists  him  to  reach  the  deck. 

The  sword  still  between  his  teeth,  his  cheek  slightly  bleeding,  his  uni 
form  dripping  with  spray.  John  Champe,  with  a  pistol  in  each  hand, 
gazes  calmly  over  the  waters.  After  that  composed  look  he  hails  his  late 
comrades  with  these  words. — 

"  Good  bye  my  boys  !  Take  care  of  Powhatan  and  d'ye  hear  ?  Present 
my  respects  to  Washington  and  Lee  !" 

— From  a  multitude  of  expressions,  uttered  by  the  troopers  on  the  bank, 
we  select  a  single  one,  which  fell  from  the  lips  of  old  Holford : 

"  I'm  a  scoundrel,"  he  said,  doggedly,  slinging  his  rifle — "  You're  a 
scoundrel" — to  a  comrade — "  and  you,  and  you,  and  you  !  There's  no 
body  honest  in  the  world  after  to  day.  We're  all  scoundrels.  I  dont  trust 
myself.  Dp  you  axe  why  ?  Yesterday,  the  best  of  our  Legion,  and  the 
bravest  was  John  Champe.  To  day — look  yonder,  and  see,  John  Champe 
aboard  a  British  galley  !  Why  I  would  not  trust  my  own  father,  after  that '" 

In  silence  the  band,  returned  their  steps  to  camp,  leading  the  riderless 
steed  by  the  bridle  rein.  Lee,  soon,  discovered  the  falsity  of  the 
rumor,  which  announced  the  Deserter's  death.  Cornet  Middleton,  with 
his  handsome  face,  covered  with  chagrin,  told  the  whole  story,  and  in  terms 
of  sincere  anguish,  regretted,  that  he  had  not  pistolled  the  Deserter,  and 
cursed  the  hour  when  he  escaped. 

To  the  utter  confusion  of  the  good  cornet,  Major  Henry  Lee,  burst  into 
a  roar  of  laughter. 

He  took  horse,  without  delay,  and  riding  to  head  quarters  told  the  story 

to  the  Chieftain,  who  heard  it,  with  a  countenance,  beaming  with  smiles. 

< 

Though  Champe  has  basely  deserted  the  cause  of  freedom,  his  future 
history,  is  fraught  with  interest. 

Behold  him,  standing  before  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  who  delighted  to  receive 
a  deserter  from  the  famed  corps  of  Lee,  questions  him,  with  an  almost  ri 
diculous  minuteness.  Yet,  the  rough  soldier,  answers  all  Sir  Henry's 
questions,  and  satisfies  him,  on  various  important  points.  The  army  were 
tired  of  Washington.  Other  Generals  were  preparing  to  follow  the  example 
of  Arnold.  Neither  discipline,  nor  patriotism  could  keep  the  Mob  of  Mis 
ter  Washington  together  much  longer.  The  good  Sir  Henry,  was 
delighted  with  the  information,  and  laughed  till  his  fat  sides  shook,  and 
gave  John  Champe  three  golden  guineas. 

The  fourth  day,  after  the  desertion,  Lee  received  a  letter,  by  the  hands 
of  a  secret  messenger,  signed,  JOHN  CHAMPE.  What  did  the  recreant  desire  ? 
A.  pardon,  perchance  ? 


JOHN  CHAMPlu  241 

On  the  30th  of  September,  Champe,  was  appointed  one  of  Arnold's  re 
cruiting  sergeants.  The  traitor  Sergeant  and  the  traitor  General,  were  thus 
brought  together.  That  scarlet  costume,  which  they  had  so  often  rent  and 
hacked  in  battle,  was  now  their  uniform. 

Every  day,  or  so,  a  secret  messenger,  in  New  York,  forwarded  to  Lee, 
certain  letters,  signed  by  Champe.  Perhaps,  he  repented  of  his  treason  ? 
Or,  did  he  wish  to  impart  information,  that  might  prove  the  ruin  of  Wash 
ington  ?  What  was  the  Deserter's  object  ? 

Behold  him  now,  an  efficient  soldier  of  Arnold's  American  Legion, 
dressed  in  a  red  uniform,  and  doing  the  work  of  a  Briton.  Did  he  never 
think  of  the  old  man,  even  his  father,  who  had  bestowed  upon  him,  the 
noble  horse,  Powhatan  ? 

At  this  time,  there  was  not  a  home  on  New  York,  but  morning,  noon 
and  night,  rung  with  the  name  of  JOHN  ANDRE. 

Would  Washington  dare  to  execute  him  ?  Had  Sir  Henry  Clinton 
spared  one  exertion  to  save  the  life  of  his  favorite  ?  What  would  be  Ar 
nold's  course,  in  case  Andre  was  put  to  death  as  a  spy  ? 

These  questions  were  often  asked,  often  answered  ;  but  on  the  evening 
of  the  Second  of  October,  a  rumor  came  to  town,  which  filled  every  heart 
with  joy. 

ANDRE  WAS  TO  BE  SET  FREE. 

At  midnight,  on  the  Third  of  October,  a  brilliant  company  thronged  the 
lighted  halls  of  an  Aristocrat,  who  was  pledged  to  the  cause  of  "  Our  Blessed 
King." 

The  soft  light  of  the  chandeliers  streamed  over  the  half-bared  bosoms  of 
some  two  hundred  beautiful  women.  Their  forms  fluttering  in  silks  and 
laces,  their  necks  circled  by  pearls  and  jewels,  these  beautiful  dames  went 
bounding  in  the  dance.  Arid  the  same  light  that  revealed  the  lovely  women, 
and  disclosed  the  statues,  pictures,  hangings  and  ornaments  of  those  brilliant 
saloons,  also  shone  over  groups  of  British  officers,  young  and  old,  who 
mingled  with  the  fair  Americans,  or  stood  in  the  deep-framed  windows, 
talking  in  low,  earnest  tones  of  the  fate  of  John  Andre. 

On  a  luxurious  divan,  cushioned  with  dark  crimson  velvet,  with  a  statue 
of  the  good  King  George  forming  the  centre,  Sir  Henry  Clinton  reclined, 
surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  officers,  mingled  with  beautiful  women. 

Among  those  women,  there  was  only  one  who  did  not  wear  the  tall 
head-gear,  in  fashion  at  that  time  ;  a  sort  of  tower,  that  ladies  had  agreed 
to  carry  on  their  brows,  as  an  elephant  carries  a  castle  on  his  back. 

She  stood  apart,  while  in  front  of  her  chattered  a  bevy  of  beauties,  whose 
cheeks,  rendered  surpassingly  white  by  the  contrast  cf  patches,  were  re 
lieved  by  their  intricately  arranged  hair. 

Her  dark  locks  gathered  plainly  back  from  her  brow,  fell  behind  the 
small  ears  in  glossy  tresses.  The  other  ladies  were  clad  w.'th  a  profusion 


442  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

of  silks,  laces,  pearls,  jewels.  She,  so  strange  in  the  majestic  lovelinean 
of  her  dark  eyes,  so  melting  in  the  warm  ripeness  of  her  lips,  in  the  volup 
tuous  fullness  of  the  bosom,  stands  alone,  clad  in  a  white  dress  that  emi 
nently  becomes  the  beauty  of  her  commanding  person. 

This  is  the  Heiress  of  the  Aristocrat  who  gives  the  festival  to-night. 

Do  you  see  her  eyes  flash,  her  bosom  heave,  as  those  ladies  converse 
with  Sir  Henry  Clinton  ? 

44  Do  you  think  indeed,  Sir  Henry,"  lisps  a  fair  haired  beauty,  "  that 
Major  Andre  will  be  set  free  by  that  odious  Washington  ?" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  that  we  will  be  able  to  snatch  him  from  the  ogre's 
grasp,"  replies  Sir  Henry,  with  a  smile,  "  But  to  speak  seriously,  the  intel 
ligence  received  last  night,  sets  my  mind  at  rest.  Andre  will  be  with  us  in 
a  day  or  so  !" 

A  murmur  of  satisfaction  thrills  through  the  group. 

The  Heiress  feels  her  heart  bound  more  freely  :  glancing  towards  a  large 
mirror  she  beholds  the  roses  blooming  once  more  upon  her  cheek. 

"  Andre  will  be  free  in  a  day  or  so !"  she  murmurs,  and  suffers  a  gallant 
officer  to  lead  her  forward  in  the  dance. 

Presently  the  wide  floor — chalked  like  the  mazes  of  a  puzzling  garden, 
is  thronged  with  dancers.  Such  a  fluttering  of  pretty  feet  over  the  boards, 
that  bound  as  they  seem  to  feel  the  value  of  that  beauty  which  they  sustain  ! 
Such  a  glancing  of  fair  necks  and  white  arms  in  the  light.  Music  too,  fill 
ing  the  air,  and  making  heart  and  feet  and  eyes,  go  leaping  together. 

The  floor  is  crowded  with  dancers ;  Sir  Henry  Clinton  smiles  with  de 
light  as  he  surveys  the  beautiful  prospect. 

And  among  all  the  dangers,  that  ONE,  with  the  dark  hair  and  brilliant 
eyes,  and  voluptuous  form,  clad  in  white,  most  attracts  the  eye  of  Sir 
Henry,  for  John  Andre  had  kissed  her  hand,  his  arm  has  encircled  her 
waist,  his  lips  felt  the  magic  of  her  rosy  mouth. 

Presently  an  officer  is  seen  treading  his  way  through  the  mazes  of  the 
dance.  Strange  to  say,  he  is  not  clad  in  ball  costume.  He  appears  in  boots 
spattered  with  mud,  while  his  hard-featured  face  seeks  the  form  of  Sir 
Henry  with  earnest  eyes.  He  comes  through  the  dancers  and  whispers  to 
Sir  Henry  Clinton,  who  says  never  a  word,  but  hides  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

I  CHI  not  tell  how  it  was,  but  assuredly,  the  presence  of  that  officer,  witn 
the  hard-featured  face  and  spattered  boots,  spread  a  chill  through  the  room. 

One  by  one  the  couples  left  the  dance  :  a  circle,  gradually  deepening 
was  formed  around  Sir  Henry  :  at  last,  the  Heiress  and  her  partner  were 
left  alone  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  pacing  a  solemn  minuet,  while  her  eyes 
and  cheeks  and  lips  smiled  in  chorus.  She  was  entirely  happy  :  for  she 
conversed  with  her  partner  about  John  Andre. 

Presently  she  observed  the  circle  gathered  about  the  British  General. 
She  turned  her  gaze  and  beheld  every  feature  clouded  in  sorrow.  She  heard 


JOHN    CHAMPE.  243 

no  more  the  light  laugh,  nor  the  careless  repartee.  All  was  silent  -around 
the  divan,  from  whose  centre  arose  the  statue  of  the  King. 

The  Heiress  turned  to  ask  the  cause  of  this  strange  gloom,  which  had  so 
suddenly  possessed  the  place,  when  a  little  girl,  not  more  than  six  years 
old,  came  running  to  her,  spreading  forth  her  tiny  hands,  and  in  one  breath 
she  called  the  beautiful  woman  by  name,  and 

— Spoke  a  fatal  truth,  that  had  just  broken  on  her  ears. 

John  Andre,  was  dead.  He  had  been  hung  that  day,  about  the  hour 
of  noon. 

The  shriek  that  thrilled  through  that  lighted  hall,  stopped  every  heart  in 
its  throbbings. 

One  shriek,  and  one  only:  the  Heiress  fell,  her  hair  showering  about  her 
as  she  lay  senseless  on  the  floor. 

So  you  may  have  seen  a  blossoming  tree,  which  has  long  swayed  to  and 
fro  beneath  the  blast,  suddenly  tower  erect,  each  leaf  quivering  gently,  and 
then — torn  up  by  the  roots — precipitate  itself  in  ruins  on  the  ground. 

At  the  same  hour,  Benedict  Arnold  was  writing  in  his  most  secret  cham 
ber,  while  his  brother-traitor,  John  Champe,  waited  near  his  chair. 

The  shaded  lamp  spread  a  circle  over  Arnold's  face  and  hand,  while  all 
around  was  twilight.  Champe  stood  in  the  shadow  behind  the  back  of 
Arnold,  his  dark  visage  working  with  a  peculiar  expression. 

Arnold  was  just  writing  these  words,  when  the  door  opened 

k  IF  THIS  WARNING  SHALL  BE  DISREGARDED,  AND  HE  SUFFER,  I  CALL  HEAVEN 
AND  EARTH  TO  WITNESS,  THAT  YOUR  EXCELLENCY  WILL  BE  JUSTLY  ANWERA- 
BLE  FOR  THE  TORRENT  OF  BLOOD  THAT  MAY  BE  SPILT  IN  CONSEQUENCE.' 

"  Let  them  put  Andre  to  death,  if  they  dare  !  Thus  I  wrote  to  Wash 
ington  yesterday,  and  now  I  write  it  again,  so  that  my  soul  may  never  forget 
these  words  !  If  Andre  perishes " 

As  Arnold  spoke,  the  door  opened  and  a  Soldier  entered  the  room — 

"  General,  Major  Andre  was  put  to  death  at  noon  to-day  !" 

Arnold  gazed  in  the  face  of  the  Soldier,  with  a  look  of  vacant  astonish 
ment. 

"  You  spoke,  I  believe  ?  The  next  time  you  intrude  upon  my  privacy, 
1  will  thank  you  to  use  a  little  more  formality  !" 

**  Excuse  me,  General,  but  this  news  has  set  us  all  a  kind  o'  topsy-turry  !" 

*»  News  ?      What  news  ?" 

"  Major  Andre  was  hung  to-day  at  noon." 

Arnold  did  not  speak  for  five  minutes.  For  that  space  of  time,  he  sat  in 
the  chair,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  paper,  but  in  truth  he  saw  nothing.  A 
hazy  vapor  swam  before  his  sight,  the  sound  of  bells  was  in  his  ears.  When 
he  saw  clearly  again,  the  stupified  soldier  stood  in  the  doorway,  gazing  upon 
the  general  in  awe,  for  the  agitation  of  that  iron  face  was  horrible  to  behold. 

"  How  did  he  die  ? — "   His  voice  was  hoarse  ;  he  spoke  with  a  great  effort 


244  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

**  By  the  rope, — at  noon — Washington  wouldn't  allow  him  to  be  shot." 

As  the  Traitor  turned  he  beheld  Champe,  seated  on  a  military  chest,  hif 
frame  writhing  in  agony,  while  his  swarthy  face  was  bathed  in  tears. 

"  I  thought  you  were  a  man — a  soldier !  Why,  you  weep  like  a  child — " 
Arnold  spoke  in  scorn,  but  took  good  care  to  keep  his  own  eyes  from  the  light. 

"  Andre — "  was  all  that  Champe  could  gasp. 

Arnold  paced  the  room,  now  folding  his  arms,  now  clenching  his  hands, 
now  uttering  in  a  low  voice,  horrible  blasphemies. 

"  Champe — "  he  said,  abruptly  pausing,  as  his  distorted  countenance 
glowed  in  the  light — "  They  have  known  me  in  the  Wilderness — yes,  at 
Quebec — at  Saratoga ;  my  sword  has  been  tried,  and  it  has  crimsoned  its 
blade  in  victory  !  Now — by — "  he  muttered  a  horrible  oath,  "  they  shall 
know  that  sword  once  more,  know  it  as  the  instrument  of  vengeance — ay<e, 
they  shall  know  it  as  the  Avenger  of  John  Andre  !" 

Terrified,  as  though  he  beheld  a  fiend  instead  of  a  man,  Champe  slowly 
rose  to  his  feet. 

"  By  the  light  of  their  desolate  homes,  I  will  offer  victims  to  the  ghost 
of  Andre  !  Take  care,  Washington  !  Your  towns  will  blaze  !  Take 
care — the  Traitor  Arnold  will  stand  amid  heaps  of  dead  bodies,  shouting  as 
he  plunges  his  sword  into  your  soldiers'  hearts,  This  and  This  for  John 
Andre  !  Traitor — I  accept  the  name — I  will  wear  it  !  From  his  hour, 
every  tie  that  bound  me  to  this  soil,  is  torn  from  my  heart !  From  this 
hour,  in  camp  and  council — by  my  wrongs,  by  the  death  of  Andre  I  swear 
it — I  stand  the  Destroyer  of  my  native  land  !" 

He  turned  to  Champe,  who  shrank  back  from  the  blaze  of  his  maddened 
eyes. 

"  You  loved  Andre  ?  Then  join  swords,  and  swear  with  me  to  avenge 
his  death  !  Swear  to  have  vengeance  upon  his  Murderer !" 

"  I  swear  to  have  vengeance  upon  the  Murderer  of  John  Andre  !"  said 
Champe,  with  a  meaning  emphasis. 

Arnold  stood  erect,  one  hand  laid  upon  his  sword,  while  the  other  up 
lifted  in  the  awful  formality  of  an  oath,  attested  the  deep  sincerity  of  his 
resolve. 

This  was  on  the  night  of  October  Third,  1780. 

In  the  space  of  time  between  this  night,  and  midnight  of  November  Se 
cond,  the  current  of  John  Champe's  life  flowed  smoothly  on,  scarcely 
marked  by  the  ripple  of  an  event. 

It  was  however  observable,  that  in  the  intervals  of  his  time,  he  was  wont 
to  visit  the  secret  messenger,  who  had  conveyed  his  previous  letters  to  Lee. 

On  the  19th  of  October,  he  despatched  another  message  to  his  formei 
Commander.  Still  his  object  is  shrouded  in  mystery.  What  mean  these 
communications  sent  by  a  Deserter  from  the  cause  of  freedom,  to  a  re 
nowned  Champion  of  that  cause  ? 


JOHN    CHAMPE.  24o 

Lee  invariably  showed  these  letters  to  Washington.  Doubtless  they 
riewed  with  the  same  spontaneous  scorn,  these  epistles  of  the  Deserter. 

Rumor  now  crept  through  New  York,  and  abroad  even  to  the  camp  of 
Washington,  that  Arnold  was  gathering  troops  for  some  bandit-enterprize. 

John  Champe  who  was  a  very  quiet  man,  saying  little,  but  observing  a 
great  deal,  followed  Arnold  like  a  shadow,  obeying  his  wish  before  the 
Traitor  could  frame  it  in  words,  and  making  himself  familiar  with  all  the 
habits  of  the  great  General. 

In  the  course  of  his  meditations,  John  impressed  four  or  five  facts  upon 
his  soul. 

The  custom  of  the  Traitor  every  night  before  retiring  to  rest,  was  to 
walk  in  the  pleasant  garden  of  his  mansion. 

This  garden  was  separated  by  certain  slender  palings  from  a  narrow 
alley.  The  alley  led  to  the  river. 

That  river  could  be  crossed  by  a  boat  at  any  hour  of  the  night. 

Now,  it  once  struck  John,  that  if  these  miserable  rebels  should  want  to 
carry  away  Benedict  Arnold,  nothing  was  more  easy,  in  case  they  arranged 
their  proceedings  in  a  proper  manner.  For  instance — two  or  three  pill- 
ings  might  be  removed — the  Traitor  seized  some  dark  night,  and  gagged  — 
placed  on  the  shoulders  of  two  men  borne  to  the  river,  and  across  to  Hoboknn. 
There  a  party  of  Lee's  dragoons  might  await  his  coming,  ready  to  boar 
him  away  to  the  camp  of  Washington. 

At  the  same  time,  that  John  dreamed  thus  wildly,  he  also  remembered 
that  somewhere  or  other,  he  had  read  words  like  these,  signed  by  Wash 
ington  : 

"  Arnold  must  be  brought  to  me  alive.  No  circumstance  whatever, 
ihall  obtain  my  consent  to  his  being  put  to  death.  My  aim  is  to  make  a 
public  example  of  him. 

WASHINGTON." 

A  strange  dream,  this  !  Let  us  hope  that  the  Deserter's  brain,  was  not 
affected  by  his  Crime. 

Time  passed  on.     Andre  had  been  dead  nearly  a  month. 

Arnold's  preparations  for  his  bandit-deed,  excited  universal  attention. 
No  incident  ruffled  the  quiet  tenor  of  the  Deserter's  life,  save  that  one  even 
ing,  toward  the  close  of  October,  a  lady  of  great  beauty  and  wealth,  sent  foi 
him,  and  talked  earnestly  with  him  for  an  hour  or  more,  holding  at  the 
same  time  in  her  hand,  a  miniature  of  JOHN  ANDRE. 


Our  history  now  returns  to  the  midnight  scene,  in  Arnold's  chamber  on 
ine  Second  of  November. 

The  Soldier  with  the  crape  over  his  face,  stood  in  the  shadow,  silently 
observing  these  two  beautiful  women. 

A  strange  contrast ! 


24G  BENEDICT   ARxNOLD. 

One,  whose  years  are  scarce  beyond  girlhood,  stands  as  if  paralyzed  ,  hei 
uplifted  hand  grasping  a  taper,  while  the  light  reveals  her  form,  attired  in  a 
white  robe  whose  loose  folds  disclose  her  bosom — so  pure  and  stainless-  - 
her  small  feet  and  bared  arms. 

The  hair  which  falls  along  her  cheeks  and  over  her  neck  and  breast,  in 
hue  resembles  the  first  mild  sunshine  of  a  summer's  day. 

The  other,  rising  in  queenly  stature,  her  form — more  round,  more  volup 
tuous,  more  commanding  in  its  outlines — attired  in  the  scarlet  coat  of  a 
British  officer,  with  cambric  ruffles  fluttering  over  the  virgin  breast,  military 
boots  enveloping  the  finely  formed  foot  and  limb.  Her  hair  showers  to  her 
shoulders,  in  dark  masses.  Her  face — whose  faint  olive  tint  deepens  on 
the  warm  lips  and  rounded  cheek  into  bright  vermillion — is  marked  with 
the  lines  of  conflicting  passions. 

Her  full  dark  eye  pours  its  light  upon  the  clear  blue  eye  of  the  woman, 
who  shrinks  back  from  her  gaze. 

"  You  here  !  In  the  chamber  of  my  hushand  !"  faltered  the  Wife — "  In 
this  guise,  too " 

"  Here,  in  the  dress  of  John  Andre  !  Here  to  welcome  Benedict  Arnold, 
in  the  garb  of  his  victim  !  Here,  to  award  justice  to  the  Double  Traitor  !" 

The  strange  lady  folded  her  arms,  as  if  to  still  the  throbbings  of  her 
breast.  The  Wife  stood  like  one  fascinated  by  a  serpent's  gaze. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  days  of  your  girlhood,  Madam,  when  the  thresh- 
hold  of  your  home  was  crossed  by  a  young  soldier,  who  won  all  hearts  by 
his  knightly  bearing  ?  Do  you  remember  him  so  young,  so  brave  ?  His 
heart  warmed  with  all  that  is  noble  in  man,  the  light  of  genius  flashing 
from  his  hazel  eye  ?" 

"  0,  do  not — do  not  speak  of  these  memories — "  gasped  the  wife  of 
Arnold. 

"  But  I  will  speak,  and  you  must  hear  !"  was  the  reply  of  the  proud 
maiden,  with  the  dark  eye  and  scornful  lips — "  You  do  remember  him  ? 
Every  body  loved  him.  You  can  witness  that !  For  you  saw  him  in  his 
young  manhood — you  surrendered  your  waist  to  his  arm  in  the  dance — you 
heard  that  voice,  which  was  at  once  Music  and  Poetry  !  O,  do  you  re 
member  it  all  ?" 

The  wife  stood  like  a  figure  of  marble,  her  blue  eyes  dilating,  her  lips 
parting  in  an  expression  of  speechless  horror. 

"  Where  now  is  this  gallant  soldier  ?  Where  now  the  Hero,  whose 
sword  flashed  so  fearlessly  in  the  hour  of  battle  ? — Wife  of  Arnold,  ask 
your  heart — nay,  go  to  the  river  shore,  and  ask  the  sod  of  that  lonely  grave  ! 
Yes,  the  hand  that  pressed  yours  in  the  dance,  is  now  the  food  of  the 
grave-worm  !  The  eye  that  gleamed  so  brightly,  when  your  hand  dropped 
the  crown  of  roses  and  laurel  on  the  plumed  brow,  is  dark  forever  !" 

The  Wife  of  Arnold  sank  on  her  knees. 

M  Spare  .ne  !"  she  cried,  lifting  her  ashy  face  toward  that  beautiful  wro 


JOHN    CHAMPE.  247 

man,  clad  in  the  dress  of  John  Andre — "  Do  not  rend  my  heart  with  these 
words—" 

"  How  died  he,  the  young,  the  gifted,  the  brave  ?" — You  see  that  eye 
dart  an  almost  demoniac  fire — "  Perchance  in  battle  at  the  head  of  legions, 
his  good  steed  beneath  him,  his  true  sword  in  hand  ?  Yes,  charging  into 
the  thickest  of  the  light,  he  fell,  his  last  smile  glowing  in  the  sunshine  of 
victory  !  Or,  maybe  he  perished  in  some  midnight  massacre,  perished  in 
the  act  of  an  heroic  defence  ?  No — no — no  !  There  was  no  sword  in  his 
hand  when  he  died.  He  died — O,  does  it  wring  your  heart — with  the  rope 
about  his  neck,  the  vacant  air  beneath  his  feet.  Beguiled  into  the  lines  of 
an  enemy  by  a  Traitor,  he  died — not  even  by  bullet  or  axe — but  quivering 
on  a  gibbet,  like  a  common  felon  !" 

How  like  the  voice  of  an  Accusing  Angel,  sent  on  earth  to  punish  guilt, 
the  tones  of  that  dark-haired  woman  rung  through  the  chamber  ! 

"  Could  I  help  it  ?"  faltered  the  beautiful  Wife  of  Arnold,  her  face  now 
deathly  pale — "  Did  1  hurry  him  to  this  fatal  death  ?  Wherefore  wring  my 
heart  with  these  memories  ?  Have  you  no  mercy  ?" 

"  Mercy  1"  sneered  the  disguised  maiden — "  Mercy  for  the  Wife  of  Ben 
edict  Arnold,  who  after  her  marriage  suffered  her  letters  to  John  Andre,  to 
enclose  the  letters  of  the  Traitor  to  Sir  Henry  Clinton  !  Ah,  droop  your 
head  upon  your  bosom,  and  bury  your  face  in  your  hands — it  is  true  ! — 
Had  you  no  share  in  that  dark  game  ?  Did  you  advise  Benedict  Arnold  to 
make  John  Andre  the  tool  of  his  Treason  ?  O,  if  in  your  heart  there  ever" 
iurked  one  throb  of  love  for  this  noble  soldier,  how  could  you  see  him  led 
on  to  infamy  ?" 

That  proud  virgin,  transformed  by  her  dress  into  a  living  portrait  of  John 
Andre,  by  her  passions  into  an  avenging  spirit,  was  now  bitterly  avenged. 

For  the  wife  of  Arnold  knelt  before  her,  her  face  upon  her  breast,  her 
golden  hair  floating  to  the  knees,  which  crouched  upon  the  floor.  And  the 
light  revealed  the  shape  of  her  beautiful  shoulders,  a  glimpse  of  her 
tumultuous  bosom. 

**  You  ask  why  I  am  here  ?  I,  a  maiden  whose  good  name  no  breath 
has  ever  dimmed,  here  in  the  chamber  of  Arnold  ? — I  am  here,  because  1 
am  a  woman,  because  that  love  which  can  never  be  given  twice  to  man, 
now  lies  buried  with  the  dead, — here  to  avenge  the  murder  of  that  brave 
soldier,  who  ere  he  started  on  his  horrible  journey,  pressed  his  kiss  upon 
my  lips,  and  told  me,  he  would  return  on  the  morrow  !" 

*'  How — "  sobbed  the  kneeling  woman — "  How  will  you  avenge  his 
death  ?  You  cannot  reach  Washington  ? 

'*  But  Washington  can  reach  Arnold  !" — her  voice  sinks  to  a  whisper,  as 
she  repeats  these  meaning  words.  A  shudder  thrilled  the  kneeling  woman. 

••  Yes,  as  Andre  died,  so  Arnold  shall  die — on  the  gibbet!  Aye,  raise 
,'our  lace  and  gaze  on  me  in  wonder.  I  speak  the  solemn  truth,  from 
this  chamber,  wound  and  dumb,  Arnold  shall  be  led  this  night.  In  the  dark 


BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

street  trusty  men  are  waiting  ibr  him,  even  now.  That  street  leads  to  the 
river— a  boat  is  ready  for  the  traitor,  there.  On  the  opposite  shore,  certain 
brave  Americans  under  the  gallant  Lee,  watch  for  the  coming  of  the  Traitor  I 
Ha,  ha !  Washington  will  not  sleep  to-night — he  expects  a  strange  visitor, 
— Benedict  Arnold !" 

As  though  all  life  had  fled  from  her  veins,  the  Wife  of  Arnold  glared  in 
the  face  of  the  dark-haired  woman.  The  words  of  the  strange  maiden, 
seemed  for  the  moment  to  deprive  her  of  ail  power  of  speech. 

"  It  is  not  so  much  for  myself  that  I  strike  this  blow  !  But  the  Mother 
of  Andre — those  innocent  sisters  who  await  his  return  Home— they  are 
before  me  now — they  speak  to  me — they  call  for  vengeance  on  the  Double 
Traitor  !" 

As  she  spoke,  the  Soldier  with  crape  about  his  face  advanced  a  single  step, 
his  chest  heaving  with  emotion. 

"  You  cannot  do  this.  Deliberately  consign  to  an  ignominious  death,  my 
husband,  who  never  wronged  you  ?" — The  Wife  raised  her  eyes  to  the  face 
of  the  dark-haired  lady,  while  the  fingers  of  her  small  hands  were  locked 
together. 

But  there  is  no  mercy  in  that  determined  face;  not  one  gleam  of  pity  in 
those  brilliant  eyes. 

"  As  I  stand  attired  in  the  garb  of  Andre,  so  surely  will  I  take  vengeance 
on  his  murderer  !" 

The  Wife  of  Arnold  made  no  reply.  Bowing  her  face  low  upon  her 
bosom,  with  her  loosened  robe  slowly  falling  from  her  shoulders,  she 
crouched  on  the  floor,  her  luxuriant  hair  twining  about  her  uncovered  arms. 

The  dark-haired  woman  beheld  her  agony,  heard  the  sobs  which  con 
vulsed  her  form,  aye,  heard  the  groan  which  the  Soldier  uttered  as  he  wit 
nessed  this  strange  scene,  yet  still  she  stood  erect,  her  unrelenting  eye  fixed 
in  a  steady  gaze,  upon  her  victim's  form. 

"  If  the  plot  fails,  this  dagger  will  do  the  work  of  my  revenge  !" 

The  word  has  not  gone  from  her  lips,  when  the  Soldier  approaches — 
whispers — you  see  the  determined  woman  start — change  color  and  sink 
helplessly  into  the  chair. 

"  Does  the  fiend  protect  him  ?"  she  gasps,  in  a  voice  utterly  changed 
from  her  tone  of  triumphant  resolve. 

"  Yes — this  very  night,  he  sails  for  the  coast  of  Virginia,"  the  Soldiei 
whispers — "  This  night,  selected  for  our  purpose,  has  by  some  strange 
chance,  torn  him  from  our  grasp.  Already  on  ship-board,  he  plans  the 
destruction  of  American  towns,  the  murder  of  American  freemen  !" 

You  see  the  Wife  of  Arnold  start  to  her  feet,  her  blue  eye  gleaming 
while  with  her  upraised  arm  she  dashes  back  from  her  face  those  locks  of 
golden  hair. 

44  He  is  saved  !  Thank  heaven  your  schemes  are  foiled.  The  angels 
need  not  weep,  to  behold  another  scene  of  murder  !" 


JOHN    CHAMPE.  349 

For  she  love^  him,  her  Warrior-husband,  that  Wife  of  Arnold  ;  and  now, 
»vith  her  entire  trame  quivering  with  a  joy  which  was  more  intense,  from 
the  re-action  of  her  despair,  she  beheld  the  schemes  of  her  enemies  crushed 
in  a  moment. 

"  The  angels  need  not  weep  to  behold  another  scene  of  murder  ?"  spoke 
the  deep  voice  of  the  Soldier,  who  stood  with  his  face  veiled  in  crape ; 
"  And  yet  the  Bandit  and  Traitor,  who  betrayed  Washington,  and  left 
Andre  to  perish  on  the  gibbet,  is  now  unloosed  like  a  savage  beast,  on  the 
homes  of  Virginia  !" 

The  tone  in  which  he  spoke,  rung  with  the  hollow  intonation  of  scorn. 

"  Who  are  you  ?  Attired  in  the  garb  of  a  British  soldier,  with  a  rebel 
coat  beneath  ?" 

Even  that  Wife,  felt  a  throb  of  pity  as  she  heard  the  sad  voice  of  this 
unknown  soldier. 

**  I  have  no  name  !  I  had  once— ^-was  once  a  brave  soldier — so  they  said. 
But  now,  the  Americans  never  speak  of  me,  but  to  curse  my  name,  in  the 
same  breath  with  Arnold  !" 

He  slowly  retired  toward  the  window  :  standing  among  the  heavy  cur 
tains,  he  beheld  the  conclusion  of  this  dark  scene. 

The  woman  attired  in  the  dress  of  Andre  slowly  rose.  The  Wife  shrank 
back  appalled,  from  the  settled  frenzy  of  her  face,  the  sublime  despair 
stamped  upon  her  features  and  flashing  from  her  eyes. 

"It  is  well  !  Arnold  escapes  the  hand  of  vengeance  now.  Now,  flushed 
with  triumph,  he  goes  on  to  complete  his  career  of  blood.  He  will  gather 
gold — renown,  aye,  favor  from  the  hands  of  his  King.  But  in  the  hour  of 
his  proudest  triumph,  even  when  he  stands  beside  the  Throne,  one  form, 
invisible  to  all  other  eyes,  will  glide  through  the  thronging  courtiers,  and 
wither  him,  with  its  pale  face,  its  white  neck  polluted  by  the  gibbet's  rope, 
its  livid  lip  trembling  with  a  muttered  curse — the  Phantom  of  John  Andre  ! 
That  Phantom  will  poison  his  life,  haunt  him  in  the  street,  set  by  him  at 
the  table — yes,  follow  him  to  the  couch  !  As  he  presses  his  wife  to  his 
lips,  that  pale  face  will  glide  between,  muttering  still  that  soundless  curse. 

"  To  escape  this  Phantom,  he  will  hurry  from  place  to  place  !  Now  in 
the  snows  of  Canada,  now  amid  the  palm  groves  of  the  Southern  Isles,  now 
on  ship-board,  now  on  shore — still  John  Andre's  ghost  will  silently  glide 
by  his  side. 

"  That  Phantom  will  work  for  him,  a  Remorse  more  terrible  than  mad 
ness  !  It  will  glide  into  men's  hearts,  enrage  their  souls  against  the  Traitor, 
teach  their  lip  the  mocking  word,  their  finger  the  quivering  gesture  of  scorn. 
As  the  Traitor  goes  to  receive  his  Royal  Master's  reward,  he  will  hear  a 
thousand  tongues  whisper,  Traitor  !  Traitor  !  Traitor  !  He  will  turn  to 
crush  the  authors  of  the  scorn — turn  and  find,  that  the  sword  which  may 
hew  a  path  through  dead  men,  cannot  combat  the  calm  contemnt  of  a 
World  ! 

16 


250  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

'*  Scorned  by  the  men  who  bought  him — his  children  and  his  wife  aL 
swept  away — he  will  stand  a  lonely  column  on  a  blasted  desert.  He  will 
be  known  as  the  TRAITOR  ARNOLD.  As  the  General  who  sold  immortal 
glory  for  twenty  thousand  guineas.  As  the  Traitor  who  left  John  Andre  to 
perish  on  the  gibbet.  As  the  MAN  WHO  HAS  NOT  ONE  FRIEND  IN  THE 
WORLD. 

"  And  when  he  dies  ;  behold  the  scene  !  No  wife,  no  child  !  Not  even 
a  dog  to  howl  above  his  grave ! 

"  Yes,  when  he  dies — while  the  Phantom  of  Andre  glides  to  his  side — no 
hand  of  friend  or  foe  shall  be  placed  upon  his  brow,  no  one  shall  wait  by 
his  couch,  no  voice  speak  to  him  of  Heaven  or  Hope,  but  in  the  utter  deso 
lation  of  a  Blighted  heart  and  a  Doomed  Name,  shall  depart  the  soul  of  the 
Traitor,  Benedict  Arnold  !" 


The  scene  of  War  was  changed.  The  South  was  given  up  to  the  torch 
and  sword. 

In  Virginia,  Cornwallis  superintended  the  murders  of  the  British,  and 
won  his  title,  the  Amiable,  by  a  series  of  bloody  outrages.  Arnold,  the 
Traitor  was  there  also,  heading  his  band  of  Assassins.  In  the  Carolinas 
Lord  Rawdon,  that  noble  gentleman,  who  hung  an  innocent  man  in  the 
presence  of  a  son,  in  order  to  terrify  the  Rebels,  carried  the  Red  Flag  of 
England  at  the  head  of  a  mingled  crowd  of  Tories  and  Hirelings. 

It  was  on  the  day  when  the  glorious  Nathaniel  Greene,  passed  the  Con 
garee  in  pursuit  of  Lord  Rawdon,  that  the  Legion  of  Lee  pitched  their  tents 
for  the  night,  where  the  trees  of  a  magnificent  wood  encircled  a  refreshing 
glade  of  greenest  moss. 

Through  the  intervals  of  those  trees — crowning  the  summit  of  a  high 
hill — many  a  glimpse  was  obtained  of  the  wide-spreading  country,  with 
arms  gleaming  from  the  trees,  and  the  Congaree,  winding  in  light  until  it 
was  lost  in  the  far  distance. 

The  soldiers  of  the  Legion  were  scattered  along  the  glade,  with  the  tops 
of  their  tents  glowing  in  the  warm  light  of  the  evening  sun.  You  may  see 
their  horses  turned  loose  on  the  green  sward,  while  the  brave  men  prepare 
their  evening  meal,  and  the  sentinels  pace  the  hillside,  beyond  these  trees. 

In  front  of  the  central  tent,  seated  on  a  camp  stool,  his  elbow  on  his 
knee,  his  swarthy  cheek  resting  in  the  palm  of  his  hand,  you  behold  the 
brave  Lee,  his  helmet  thrown  aside,  his  green  coat  unfastened  at  the  throat. 
That  sudden  gush  of  sunlight,  falling  over  his  swarthy  face,  reveals  the 
traces  of  strong  emotion.  Yes,  Lee  is  sad,  although  they  have  gained  a 
victory,  sad,  although  he  has  been  rewarded  with  the  rank  of  Lieutenani 
Colonel,  sad,  although  his  men  love  him  like  a  brother,  and  would  give  theii 
Uves  to  him. 

Suddenly  a  wild  murmur  was  heard,  and  two  dragoons  are  seen  advan 
cing  with  a  prisoner,  led  between  their  steeds.  As  they  ride  toward  Coio 


JOHN    CHAMPE.  251 

Del  Lee,  the  entire  Legion  come  running  to  the  scene  :  on  every  side,  you 
behold  men  starting  up  from  an  untasted  meal,  and  hurrying  toward  the 
tent  of  their  leader. 

A  miserable  prisoner  ! 

Every  eye  beholds  him.  Pale,  hollow-eyed,  his  flesh  torn  by  briars,  his 
form  worn  by  famine,  and  clad  in  wretched  rags,  he  is  led  forward.  All 
at  once,  the  murmur  swells  into  a  shout,  and  then  a  thousand  curses  rend 
the  air. 

"  Colonel — "  the  discordant  cries  mingled  in  chorus — "  Behold  him  ! 
The  next  tree,  a  short  prayer,  and  a  strong  cord  for  the  traitor !  Colonel — 
here  is  our  deserter — the  Sergeant  Major !  It  is  Champe  !'' 

Utterly  absorbed  in  his  thoughts,  Lee  had  not  observed  the  approach  of 
the  dragoons.  His  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  he  grasped  his  cheek  in 
the  effort  to  endure  his  bitter  thoughts.  Yet  at  the  word  "  Champe  !" 
spoken  with  curses,  he  raised  his  head  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Where  ?"  he  cried  ;  his  whole  manner  changing  with  the  rapidity  of 
lightning.  His  eyes  encountered  the  strange  hollow  gaze  of  the  Prisoner, 
who  stood  silent  and  miserable,  amid  the  crowd  of  angry  faces. 

"  To  the  next  tree  with  the  traitor  !  Ah,  scoundrel,  you  would  disgrace 
the  Legion,  would  you  !  Champe  the  Deserter!" 

The  uproar  grew  tumultuous ;  it  seemed  as  though  the  brave  soldiers 
were  about  to  transgress  the  bounds  of  discipline,  and  take  the  law  in  their 
own  hands. 

Lee  gazed  steadfastly  upon  the  prisoner,  who  pale  and  emaciated,  re 
turned  his  look.  Then,  starting  forward,  his  face  betraying  deep  emotion, 
he  exclaimed  : 

"  Is  this  indeed  John  Champa  .'" — tic  \vas  so  wretchedly  changed. 

The  silence  of  the  poor  wretch  gave  assent,  while  the  dragoon  stated  that 
they  had  taken  him  prisoner,  as  he  was  making  his  way  toward  the  camp. 

Lee  manifested  his  opinion  of  the  recreant  and  deserter,  by  an  expressive 
action  and  a  few  decided  words.  Suddenly  that  group  of  soldiers  became 
as  silent  as  a  baby's  slumber. 

The  action !  He  took  Champe  by  the  hand,  and  wrung  it,  while  the 
tears  came  to  his  eyes.  The  words  : 

"  WELCOME  BACK  TO  THE  LEGION,  BRAVE  AND  HONEST  MAN  !" 

Those  iron  Legionists  stood  horror-stricken  and  dumb,  while  the  reply 
of  the  prisoner  increased  their  dismay  : 

"  Colonel,  I  am  back  at  last !"  he  said,  returning  the  pressure  of  Lee's 
hand,  and  while  the  large  tears  streamed  down  his  face,  he  whispered  with 
the  Colonel. 

"  My  comrades,"  exclaimed  Lee,  as  he  took  Champe  by  the  hand  and 
surveyed  the  confounded  crowd — "  There  was  a  time  when  General  Wash 
ington  appealed  to  the  Commander  of  a  body  of  brave  men,  and  asked  him, 
whether  in  his  corps  there  could  be  found  one  man,  willing  to  dare  dishonoi 


2o2  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

and  death,  in  the  cause  of  Humanity  and  Justice  !  He  wished  to  save  John 
Andre  by  taking  Benedict  Arnold  prisoner.  In  order  to  accomplish  this,  it 
would  be  necessary  to  find  a  man  who  would  desert  to  the  enemy — desert, 
pursued  by  his  indignant  comrades,  desert  in  the  sight  of  the  British,  and 
take  refuge  in  their  ranks.  This  man  was  found.  After  a  bitter  struggle, — 
for  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  endure  his  comrades  scorn— he  de 
serted,  and  barely  escaped  with  his  life.  Once  in  New  York,  he  enlisted 
in  the  Legion  of  Arnold.  While  he  was  making  his  preparations  for  the 
capture  of  the  Traitor,  Andre  was  hung.  This  wrung  the  Deserter  to  the 
heart,  for  his  great  reason  for  undertaking  this  work  was  the  salvation  of 
Andre's  life.  One  object  remained — the  capture  of  Arnold.  After  the  lapse 
of  a  month,  everything  was  arranged.  You  remember  the  night  when  a 
detachment  of  our  Legion  watched  until  day,  in  the  shades  of  Hoboken  ? 
The  traitor  was  to  be  seized  in  his  garden,  tied  and  gagged,  hurried  to  the 
boat,  then  across  the  river  into  our  clutches.  But  we  waited  in  vain,  the 
plot  was  foiled  !  That  night  Arnold  went  on  ship-board,  and  with  him  the 
Deserter,  who,  taken  to  Virginia,  left  the  British  at  the  first  opportunity, 
and  after  weeks  of  wandering  and  starvation,  returned  to  his  comrades. 
What  think  ye  of  this  Deserter?  This  Hero,  who  dared  what  the  soldier 
fears  more  than  a  thousand  deaths — the  dishonor  of  desertion — in  order 
to  save  the  life  of  John  Andre  ?  In  short,  my  comrades,  what  think  you 
of  this  brave  and  good  man,  JOHN  CKAMPE  !" 

No  sound  was  heard.  At  least  an  hundred  forms  stood  paralyzed  and 
motionless  ;  at  least,  an  hundred  hearts  beat  high  with  emotions,  as  strange 
as  they  were  indefinable.  Not  an  eye  but  was  wet  with  tears.  When 
iron  men  like  these  shed  tears,  there  is  something  in  it. 

At  last,  advancing  one  by  one,  they  took  Champe  by  the  hand,  and  with 
out  a  word,  gave  him  a  brother's  silent  grasp.  There  was  one  old  war-dog, 
terribly  battered  with  cuts  and  scars,  who  came  slowly  forward,  and  looked 
him  in  the  face,  and  took  both  hands  in  his  own,  exclaiming,  in  his  rough 
way,  as  he  quivered  between  tears  and  laughter — "  Have  nt  you  got  another 
hand,  John  ?"  , 

It  was  the  Veteran,  who  from  the  shore  of  Manhattan  Bay,  had  taken 
aim  at  the  head  of  the  deserter  Champe. 

"  This  moment,"  said  Champe,  his  voice  husky  with  suffocating  emotion, 
"  This  moment  pays  me  for  all  I've  suffered !" 

Never  in  the  course  of  the  Revolution,  did  the  sun  go  down  upon  a  scene 
so  beautiful ! 

The  trees  encircling  the  sward,  with  the  horses  of  the  legion  tied  among 
their  leaves.  The  scattered  tents,  and  the  deserted  fires.  The  prospect 
of  the  distant  country,  seen  between  the  trees,  all  shadow  and  gold  The 
tent  of  Lee,  surrounded  by  that  crowd  of  brave  men,  every  eye  centred 
upon  that  ragged  form,  with  the  hollow  cheek  and  sunken  eyes. 


THE   TEMPTATION    OF   SIR    HENRY    CLINTON,  253 

Lee  himself,  gazing  with  undisguised  emotion  upon  that  face,  now  red 
dened  by  the  sunset  glow,  the  visage  of  John  Champe,  the  Deserter. 

Nothing  was  wanting  to  complete  the  joy  of  the  hero — yes,  there  was 
.one  form  absent.  But,  hark  !  A  crash  in  yonder  thicket,  a  dark  horse 
bounds  along  the  sod,  and  neighing  wildly,  lays  his  neck  against  his  master's 
breast. 

It  Was   POWHATAN. 


You  may  imagine  the  scene  which  took  place,  when  Champe  mounted 
on  Powhatan,  rode  to  meet  Washington  ! 

After  many  years  had  passed,  when  Washington  was  called  from  the 
shades  of  Mount  Vernon,  to  defend  his  country  once  again,  he  sent  a  Cap 
tain's  commission  to  Lee,  with  the  request  that  he  would  seek  out  Champel 
and  present  it  to  him. 

The  letter  received  by  the  American  Chief,  in  answer,  contained  these 
words  : 

— k  Soon  after  the  war,  the  gallant  soldier  removed  to  Kentucky.  There 
he  died.  Though  no  monument  towers  above  his  bones — we  do  not  even 
know  his  resting  place — every  true  soldier  must  confess,  that  the  history 
of  the  Revolution  does  not  record  a  nobler  name  than — 

JOHN  CHAMPE. 

XVIII.— THE  TEMPTATION  OF  SIR  HENRY  CLINTON. 

ONE  more  scene  from  the  sad  drama  of  Andre's  fate  ! 

On  a  calm  autumnal  evening — the  last  day  of  September,  1780 — Sir 
Henry  Clinton  sat  in  his  luxurious  chamber,  in  the  city  of  New  York, 
pondering  over  matters  of  deep  interest. 

The  wine  stood  untasted  in  the  goblet  by  his  side,  as  reposing  in  the 
arm-chair,  by  yonder  window,  with  his  hands  joined  across  his  chest,  he 
fixed  his  eye  vacantly  upon  the  rich  carpet  beneath  his  feet. 

There  was  every  display  of  luxury  in  that  chamber.  High  ceiling  and 
lofty  walls,  hung  with  pictures,  carpets  on  the  floor  that  gave  no  echo  to 
the  footfall,  furniture  of  dark  mahogany  polished  like  a  mirror,  silken 
curtains  along  the  windows,  and  a  statue  of  his  Majesty,  George  the 
Third,  in  the  background. 

The  view  which  stretched  before  that  window  was  magnificent.  The 
wide  expanse  of  Manhattan  Bay,  dotted  with  islands,  and  white  with  the 
sails  of  ships  of  war — the  distant  shore  of  Staten  Island  and  Jersey — the 
clear  sky — piled  up  in  the  west,  with  heavy  clouds,  tinged  and  mellowed 
with  all  the  glories  of  an  autumnal  sunset;  this  was  a  lovely  view,  but  Sn 
Henry  Clinton  saw  it  not. 

His  thoughts  were  with  a  letter  which  lay  half  open  beside  the  untasted 


254  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

goblet  of  rich  old  wine,  and    that    letter   bore    the    signature   of  Georg€ 
Washington. 

Now,  as  some  persons  are  always  forming  wrong  ideas  of  the  personal 
appearance  of  great  men,  I  ask  you  to  look  closely  upon  the  face  and  form 
of  yonder  General.  His  form  is  short,  and  heavy  almost  to  corpulence  , 
his  face  round,  full  and  good-humored ;  his  red  coat  glittering  with  epau 
lettes,  thrown  open  in  front,  disclosed  the  buff  vest,  with  ample  skirts,  and 
the  snowy  whiteness  of  his  cambric  bosom,  across  whose  delicate  ruffles 
hi«  hands  were  folded.  He  wore  polished  boots  reaching  above  the  knee, 
where  his  large  limb  was  cased  in  buckskin.  His  sword  lay  on  the  table 
by  his  side,  near  the  letter  and  goblet. 

Sir  Henry  had  been  sitting  in  this  position  for  an  hour,  thinking  over  the 
ONE  TOPIC  that  occupied  his  whole  soul ;  but  strange  it  was,  which  ever 
way  he  tried  to  turn  his  thoughts,  he  still  saw  the  same  picture.  It  was 
the  picture  of  a  wan-faced  mother,  who  sat  in  her  lonely  room,  with  a  fair 
daughter  on  either  side,  all  waiting  for  the  son  and  brother  to  come  home 
and  he 

Sir  Henry  dared  not  finish  the  picture.  He  was  afraid  when  he  thought 
of  it.  And  yet  the  Picture  had  been  there  before  him,  for  an  hour — there, 
on  the  space  between  his  eye  and  the  western  sky. 

Suddenly  his  reverie  was  interrupted  by  the  low  tread  of  a  footstep. 
Sir  Henry  looked  up,  and  beheld  a  man  of  harsh  features,  arrayed  in  a 
Colonel's  uniform. 

The  Colonel  was  a  singular  character.  Harsh  in  features,  with  a 
bronzed  skin,  long  nose,  thin  lips — his  character  was  moody,  reserved  and 
misanthropic.  He  was  attached  to  the  General's  staff,  and  yet  he  had  no 
associates.  He  never  spoke  except  in  monosyllables.  Sir  Henry  had  a 
high  regard  for  his  military  knowledge,  as  well  as  an  admiration  for  his 
blunt,  soldierly  bearing ;  so  he  spoke  to  him  kindly,  and  invited  him  to  be 
seated. 

The  Colonel  sat  down  in  the  opposite  recess  of  the  broad  window,  with 
his  back  to  the  light. 

**  So,  John  Andre  is  to  be — hung?"  uttered  the  Colonel,  in  a  quiet,  un 
concerned  tone. 

Sir  Henry  moved  nervously  in  his  seat. 

"  Why — why — the  fact  is,"  said  he,  hesitatingly,  "  this  letter  from 
Washington  states  that  he  has  been  tried  as  a  spy,  and  will  be  hanged  to 
morrow  morning  as  a  spy." 

A  shade  of  gloom  passed  over  Sir  Henry's  face.  He  bit  his  lip,  and 
pressed  his  hand  violently  against  his  forehead. 

44  Very  unpleasant,"  said  the  Colonel,  carelessly.  "  Hanged  !  Did  you 
say  so,  General  ?  And  he  had  such  a  white  neck — heigh-ho  !" 

Sir  Henry  looked  at  the  Colonel  as  though  he  could  have  stabbed  him  to 
the  heart.  He  said  nothing,  however,  but  crumpled  Washington's  letter  in 


THE   TEMPTATION    OF   SIR    HENRY    CLINTON.  255 

his  hand.  He  knew  one  trait  of  the  Colonel ;  when  he  appeared  most 
careless  and  unconcerned,  he  was  most  serious. 

•*  So,  they  '11  take  him  out  in  a  horrid  old  cart,"  said  he,  languidly — *•  a 
cart  that'll  go  jolt !  jolt !  jolt !  With  a  hideous  hangman,  too — and  a  pine 
box — faugh  !  I  say,  General,  who  would  have  guessed  it,  this  time  last 
week?" 

Sir  Harry  said  not  a  word. 

"  Will  it  not  be  unpleasant,  when  your  Excellency  returns  home  ?  To 
wait  upon  the  Major's  mother  and  sisters,  and  tell  them,  when  they  ask 
you  where  he  is,  that  he  was — hung!" 

Sir  Henry  Clinton  grew  purple  in  the  face.  He  was  seized  with  deadly 
anger.  Kising  in  his  seat,  he  extended  his  hand  toward  the  Colonel— 

"  Zounds  !  sir,  what  do  you  mean  ?  The  man  who  can  make  a  jest  of 
a  matter  like  this,  has  no  sympathy — " 

"  For  the  General  who  will  calmly  consign  one  of  his  bravest  officers  to 
the  gallows  !"  interrupted  the  sardonic  Colonel. 

Sir  Henry  now  grew  pale  ;  the  audacity  of  his  inferior  awed  him. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  that  I  consign  John  Andre  to  the  gallows  ?"  he 
said,  in  a  low  voice,  that  quivered  with  suppressed  rage. 

"  I  do  !"  coolly  responded  the  Colonel. 

"  Will  you  be  pleased  to  inform  me  in  what  manner  I  am  guilty  in  your 
eyes  ?"  continued  the  General,  in  the  same  ominous  tone. 

"  You  can  save  John  Andre,  but  will  not !" 

"  How  can  I  save  him  ?" 

"  This  Rebel  Washington  does  not  so  much  care  about  hanging  Andre, 
as  he  does  for  making  an  example  of — somebody.  You  give  up  that — 
somebody — and  he  will  deliver  Andre,  safe  and  sound,  into  your  hands." 

Had  a  thunderbolt  splintered  the  floor  at  Sir  Henry's  feet,  his  face  could 
riot  have  displayed  such  a  conflict  of  wonder  and  alarm  as  it  did  now.  He 
looked  anxiously  around  the  room,  as  though  he  feared  the  presence  of  a 
third  person,  who  might  overhear  the  deliberate  expression  of  the  Colonel. 

"  That — SOMEBODY — I  met  just  now  in  Broadway.  What  a  splendid  red 
coat  he  wears  !  How  well  it  becomes  him,  too  !  Don't  you  think  he  feels 
a  little  odd  ?" 

Sir  Henry  rose  from  his  seat,  and  paced  hurriedly  up  and  down  the 
room.  Now  he  was  gone  into  shadows,  and  now  he  came  forth  into  light 
again. 

At  last  he  approached  the  Colonel,  and  bending  down,  so  that  their  faces 
nearly  touched,  uttered  these  words  in  a  whisper : 

"  Give  up  Benedict  Arnold  for  John  Andre — is  that  what  you  mean  ?" 

"  It  is  !"  and  the  Colonel  looked  up  into  the  Hushed  face  of  his  superior 

"  Pshaw  !  This  is  nonsense  !  Washington  would  never  entertain  such 
a  proposition,"  muttered  Sir  Henry. 

The  answer  from  the  Colonel  was  deep-toned,  clear,  and  deliberate. 


256  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

'*  Your  Excellency  will  pardon  my  rudeness.  I  am  a  rough  soldier,  but 
I  have  a  heart.  I'll  be  frank  with  you.  The  fate  of  this  Andre  fills  me 
with  horror.  He  is  a  good  fellow,  though  he  does  paint  pictures,  and 
write  rhymes,  and  act  plays,  and  do  other  things  beneath  the  dignity  of  a 
soldier.  But  he  has  a  soul,  your  Excellency,  he  has  a  heart.  I  would 
peril  rny  life  to  save  him.  I  can't  help  thinking  of  his  mother  and  sisters 
in  England — he  is  their  only  dependence,  and — 

44  Well,  Colonel,  well" — interrupted  Sir  Henry. 

•*  An  officer  from  Washington  waits  in  the  room  below,  with  authority 
from  his  General  to  make  this  proposition  to  you — Give  me  Arnold  and  1 
will  give  you  Andrei" 

Sir  Henry  Clinton  fell  back  in  his  seat  as  though  a  shot  had  pierced  his 
breast.  He  said  not  a  word,  but  as  if  stupefied  by  this  proposition,  folded 
his  hands  across  his  breast,  and  gazed  vacantly  upon  the  sunset  sky. 

The  last  gleam  of  twilight  fell  over  the  broad  expanse  of  Manhattan  Bay. 
All  was  silent  in  the  chamber,  save  the  hard,  deep  breathing  of  Sir  Henry 
Clinton,  who,  with  his  head  inclined  to  one  side,  still  gazed  upon  the  west 
ern  sky,  with  that  same  vacant  stare. 

At  last  two  liveried  servants  entered,  and  placed  lighted  candles  on  the 
table. 

The  Colonel  started  when  he  beheld  the  strange  paleness  of  Sir  Henry's 
eountenance.  He  was  terribly  agitated,  for  his  lips  were  compressed,  his 
Grows  contracted,  his  hands  pressed  fixedly  against  his  breast. 

At  last  he  spoke.  His  voice  was  strangely  changed  from  his  usual  bold 
and  hearty  tones. 

"  Had  George  Washington  offered  me  the  Throne  of  the  Western  Con 
tinent,  he  could  not  have  so  tempted  me,  as  he  does  by  this  proposition,  to 
exchange  Arnold  for  Andre.1" 

"  Exchange  them,"  growled  the  Colonel. 

"  But  what  will  the  world — what  will  my  King  say  ?  It  would  be  a 
breach  of  confidence,  a  violation  of  a  soldier's  honor — it  would  iu 
fact,  be " 

•'  An  easy  method  of  rescuing  the  white  neck  of  John  Andre  from  the 
gibbet !"  coolly  interrupted  the  Colonel. 

This  was  a  hard  thrust.  Sir  Henry  was  silent  for  a  moment ;  but  that 
moment  passed,  he  flung  his  clenched  hand  on  the  table. 

"  I  am  tempted,  horribly  tempted  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  broken  tones.  "  1 
never  was  so  tempted  in  my  life.  Speak  of  it  no  more,  sir,  speak  of  it  no 
more  !  Did  you  say  that  the  rebel  officer  waited  below  ?" 

"  General,  shall  I  call  him  up  ?"  whispered  the  Colonel,  fixing  his  eyes 
firmly  on  Clinton's  face. 

Sir  Henry  did  not  reply.  The  Colonel  arose  and  moved  towards  the 
door,  when  he  was  met  by  an  officer  attired  in  a  rich  scarlet  uniform,  who 


THE    SISTERS.  25-; 

-.ame  a.ong  the  carpet  with  an  easy  stride,  somewhat  lessened  in  dignity  by 
a  perceptible  lameness. 

The  Colonel  started  as  though  a  serpent  had  stung  him. 

For  in  that  officer  with  the  rich  scarlet  uniform,  glittering  with  epaulettes 
of  gold — in  that  officer  with  the  bold  countenance,  and  forehead  projecting 
over  dark  eyes  that  emitted  a  steady  glare,  he  recognized — Benedict  Arnold. 

"  Good  evening,  Colonel !"  said  Arnold,  with  a  slight  inclination  of  his 
head. 

ik  Good  evening,  Colonel  Arnold!"  at  last  responded  the  Colonel,  with  a 
slight  yet  meaning  intonation  of  scorn.  "  I  never  observed  it  before,  but — 
excuse  me — you  limp  in  the  right  leg  ?  Where  did  you  receive  the 
wound  ?" 

It  was  not  often  that  Arnold  blushed,  but  now  his  throat,  his  cheeks,  and 
brow  were  scarlet.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  stricken  into  stone,  but  at 
last  he  replied  in  a  deep  sonorous  voice,  that  started  Sir  Henry  Clinton 
from  his  chair  : 

"  That  leg  sir,  was  twice  broken  ;  the  first  time,  when  I  stormed  Quebec. 
The  second  time,  at  Saratoga,  when  I  took  the  last  fortress  of  Burgoynt! 
— Are  you  answered,  sir  ?" 

Without  a  word  more,  leaving  the  astonished  officer  to  remember  the 
glare  of  his  eye,  he  passed  on,  and  saluted  Sir  Henry  Clinton  with  a 
deep  bow. 

Sir  Henry  received  him  with  a  formal  bow,  waving  his  hand  toward  the 
chair,  in  the  recess  of  the  window.  Arnold  sat  down,  and  crossing  his  legs 
in  a  careless  position,  fixed  his  dark  eyes  full  in  Clinton's  face,  as  he  spoke 
in  a  laughing  tone : 

"  Do  you  know,  General,  I  heard  a  very  clever  thing  as  I  passed  along 
the  street.  Two  of  our  soldiers  were  conversing  ; — » I  tell  you  what  it  is,' 
said  one  of  the  fellows  to  the  other,  4  Sir  Henry  Clinton  couldn't  do  a  bet 
ter  thing,  than  send  this  Arnold — (ha  !  ha  !  this  Arnold,  mark  you  !)  to 
General  Washington,  who  will  very  likely  hang  him  in  place  of  Andre  !' 
Wasn't  it  clever,  General  ?  By  the  bye,  this  evening  air  is  very  cool." 

Sir  Henry  saw  the  sneer  on  Arnold's  face,  and  knew  at  once  that  An 
dre's  fate  was  sealed  ! 

XIX.— THE    SISTERS. 

IT  was  a  flower  garden,  watered  by  a  spring  that  bubbled  up  from  yellow 
sands. 

It  was  a  flower  garden,  environed  by  a  wall  of  dark  grey  stone,  over 
shadowed  with  vines  and  roses. 

It  was  a  flower  garden,  standing  in  the  centre  of  a  wood,  whose  leaves 
blushed  like  the  rainbow,  with  the  dyes  of  autumn. 

Yonder  rises  the  mansion,  something  between  a  stately  dwelling  and  a 
quiet  cottage  in  appearance,  you  see  its  steep  roof,  its  grotesque  chimneys 


258  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

the  porch  before  the  door,  supported  by  oaken  pillows  wreathed  with 
vines. 

A  dear  retreat,  this  place  of  fragrant  beds,  and  winding  walks,  of  orchard 
trees  heavy  with  fruit,  and  flowers  blooming  into  decay,  trembling  with 
perfume  ere  they  die. 

It  was  that  calm  hour,  when  clouds  hasten  to  the  west,  and  range  them 
selves  in  the  path  of  the  setting  sun,  as  though  anxious  to  receive  the  kiss 
of  their  Lord,  ere  he  sank  to  rest.  It  was  that  beautiful  moment,  when  the 
tree  tops  look  like  pyramids  of  gold,  and  sky  resembles  a  dome  of  living 
flame,  with  a  blush  of  glory  pervading  its  cope,  from  the  zenith  to  the  hori 
zon.  It  was  the  close  of  one  of  those  delicious  days  in  autumn,  when  we 
love  to  bury  ourselves  in  the  recesses  of  brown  woods,  and  think  of  the 
friends  that  are  gone,  when  it  is  our  calm  delight  to  wander  through  long 
vistas  of  overarching  trees,  treading  softly  over  the  sward,  and  give  our  souls 
to  memories  of  love,  or  dwell  sadly  and  yet  tenderly  upon  the  grave  which 
awaits  us,  when  the  play  of  life  is  over. 

In  the  centre  of  the  garden  there  grow  four  apple  trees,  their  gnarled 
limbs  twining  together,  while  their  fruit  of  various  colors  glowed  in  the  rosy 
light.  Beneath  the  shade  and  fruitage  of  these  trees,  a  rugged  bench,  formed 
with  plain  branches  of  oak  twisted  in  various  fantastic  forms,  was  placed, 
presenting  a  delightful  retreat  amid  the  recesses  of  that  rustic  garden. 

Just  as  you  may  have  seen,  two  flowers,  alike  beautiful,  yet  contrasted 
in  their  style  of  loveliness,  swaying  side  by  side  in  the  summer  breeze, 
their  varied  tints  affording  a  picture  of  never-ending  freshness,  so  two  beau 
tiful  girls  bloomed  side  by  side,  in  that  quiet  recess. 

Their  faces  are  turned  toward  the  evening  light,  as  they  feel  the  deep 
serenity  of  that  hour.  One,  a  delicate,  fragile  thing,  with  skin  almost  su- 
pernaturally  fair,  eyes  blue  as  an  Italian  sky,  hair  like  threaded  gold,  lays 
her  hand  upon  her  sister's  shoulder,  and  nestles  gently  to  her  side. 

Young  Alice  !  A  tender  flower,  that  has  just  ripened  from  the  bud,  with 
the  dew  yet  fresh  upon  its  petals. 

The  other,  a  warm  figure,  ripened  into  perfect  womanhood,  her  breast 
rounded,  her  small  feet  and  hands  in  strong  contrast  with  the  blooming  full 
ness  of  her  shape.  Her  brown  hair,  that  falls  back  from  her  white  neck  in 
glossy  masses, — here,  dark  as  a  raven's  wing,  there,  waving  in  bright  ches- 
nut  hues — affords  a  fresh  beauty  to  her  boldly  chisseled  face,  whose  lips 
are  red  with  mature  ripeness.  Her  deep  grey  eyes,  the  clearly  defined 
brows  and  impressive  forehead,  combine  in  an  expression  of  intellectual  beauty. 

Womanly  Mary  !  A  moss  rose,  blooming  its  last  hour  of  freshness,  its 
leaves  crimsoning  with  all  the  beauty  they  can  ever  know. 

On  her  full  bosom  the  head  of  the  younger  Sister  was  laid,  among  her 
brown  tresses,  the  flaxen  locks  of  her  sister  wandered,  like  sunshine  rays 
among  twilight  shadows. 

"  It  is  fo  sweet,  at  this  still  bour,  Mary,  to  think  of  him  !     To  remembei 


THE   SISTERS.  259 

ow  he  looked,  and  what  he  said,  when  last  we  saw  him — to  count  the 
days,  yes,  the  moments  that  must  elapse  before  he  will  return  to  us  !" 

Thus  spoke  the  young  sister,  her  eye  gleaming  in  moisture,  but  the  elder 
felt  her  face  flush,  and  her  eye  brighten,  as  these  words  came  impetuously 
from  her  lips : 

"  But  sweeter  far,  Alice,  to  think  how  proud,  how  noble  he  will  look 
when  he  stands  before  us,  so  like  a  hero,  with  the  star  upon  his  breast,  the 
warrior's  robe  upon  his  form  !  To  think  of  him,  not  coming  back  to  us  as 
he  departed,  an  humble  Cadet,  but  a  titled  General,  welcomed  by  the  favoi 
of  his  king,  the  applause  of  his  countrymen  ! — His  last  letters  speak  of  his 
certain  ascent  to  fame.  Even  now,  he  is  engaged  upon  a  deed — whose 
nature  he  does  not  reveal- — that  will  cause  his  name  to  burst  in  glory  on  his 
country's  fame  !" 

Sisterly  love — pure  and  child-like — spoke  in  the  words  of  the  first. 
Sisterly  love,  tender  yet  impetuous  with  ambition,  rung  in  the  strong  tones 
of  the  other. 

"  And  Mother,  0,  how  glad  she  will  be  !  We  shall  all  feel  so  happy, 
and — "  The  younger  Sister  started,  for  she  heard  a  step.  With  one  as 
sent,  they  turned  their  eyes  and  beheld  a  widowed  woman,  with  her  silver 
hair  laid  back  from  a  mild  and  beaming  face,  come  slowly  along  the  garden 
walk. 

It  was  their  Mother.  They  rose  and  greeted  her,  and  in  their  different 
ways,  told  their  young  hopes  and  fears. 

She  sat  between  them  on  the  garden  bench,  each  small  hand  on  which 
were  marked  the  lines  of  time,  laid  upon  a  daughter's  head. 

"  How  strange  it  is,  that  we  have  had  no  letters  for  a  month  !  Not  a 
word  from  your  brother,  my  children  !  Perhaps,  since  we  have  retired  to 
this  quiet  cottage,  near  a  secluded  country  town,  the  letters  miss  us.  Corne. 
girls — it  is  a  pleasant  evening,  let  us  walk  in  the  woods  !" 

Taking  their  soft  hands  within  her  own,  the  Mother  beside  her  daughters, 
looked  like  a  beautiful  flower,  whose  young  freshness  has  been  but  faintly 
preserved  in  the  leaves  of  Time's  volume,  contrasted  with  the  young  love 
liness  of  ungathered  blossoms. 

She  led  the  way  toward  the  garden  gate.  Along  this  narrow  path,  where 
the  thicket  stored  with  berries,  blooms  in  evergreen  freshness,  into  the  dim 
woods,  where  there  is  a  carpet  of  soft  moss,  filled  with  sunshine  and 
shadows. 

They  strolled  along,  the  younger  sister  now  stooping  to  pluck  a  wild 
flower  as  gay  as  herself,  the  other  talking  earnestly  to  her  mother  of  the 
absent  Soldier. 

"  Don't  you  remember,  Mother,  how  a  month  ago,  when  we  were  work 
ing  together,  at  our  embroidery,  I  thought  I  heard  my  brother's  step,  and 
went  to  the  door  to  greet  him  ?  1  am  sure  I  heard  his  step,  and  yet  it  waf 
§li  a  fancy  !" 


260  BENEDICT    ARNOLD 

As  the  Sister  Alice  spoke,  in  a  tone  full  of  laughing  gaiety,  Mary  changed 
color  and  leaned  upon  her  mother's  shoulder,  her  breast  throbbing  violently 
againt  her  dark  habit. 

The  Mother  looked  upon  her  with  unfeigned  alarm  : 

"  You  are  ill,  Mary,  and  yet  the  evening  air  is  by  no  means  unpleasant,  ' 
she  said. 

«*  It  was  the  Second  of  October !"  she  whispered,  as  though  thinking 
aloud. 

44  How  can  you  remember  dafes  ?"  said  Alice,  laughing :  "  I'm  sure  I 
can  remember  anything  but  dates.  You  know,  Mary,  when  I  read  my 
history  at  school,  I  always  jumbled  Henry  the  Eighth  and  Julius  Caesar 
together !" 

44  It  happened  to  fix  itself  upon  my  memory,"  replied  Mary,  raising  her 
face  and  walking  statelily  onward  again.  44  That  sudden  faintness  is  past:  I 
am  quite  well  now,"  she  said,  passing  her  hand  lightly  over  her  brow. 

44  0,  I  remember — "  said  the  Mother,  in  a  careless  tone.  44  On  that  day, 
even  as  Alice  hurried  to  the  door,  expecting  to  greet  her  brother's  form,  you 
swooned  away.  You  remember  it,  on  account  of  your  swoon  ?  Now  that 
I  call  the  circumstance  to  mind,  I  recollect,  the  old  clock  struck  twelve,  as 
you  fainted." 

44  Twelve  o'clock — the  Second  of  October!"  faltered  the  pale  Mary,  as 
the  remembrance  of  the  strange  hallucination  which  possessed  her,  on  that 
day  and  hour,  freezing  her  blood  and  darkening  her  reason,  came  to  her 
soul  with  redoubled  force. 

The  Vision  that  she  saw,  sitting  in  that  quiet  chamber,  she  dared  never 
tell,  it  was  so  strange,  so  like  a  nightmare,  pressing  its  beak  into  her  virgin 
breast,  and  drinking  slowly  the  life-blood  from  her  heart. 

They  wandered  on,  Alice  tripping  gaily  over  the  sod,  the  Mother  con 
versing  cheerfully,  even  Mary  felt  her  heart  bound,  in  the  deep  serenity  of 
that  evening  hour. 

There  was  a  nook  in  that  wild  wood,  where  the  bank  shelved  down  and 
the  trees  stood  apart,  forming  a  circle  around  an  ancient  pile  of  stones,  over 
whose  moss-covered  forms  bubbled  a  fountain  of  clear  cold  water.  Above 
the  fountain  arose  a  form  of  wood,  overgrown  with  vines,  and  leaning  for 
ward.  It  was  a  Cross,  planted  three  hundred  years  before,  when  these 
lands  belonged  to  a  Monastery,  and  the  Old  Religion  dwelt  on  the  soil. 

The  Mother  and  her  Daughters  approach'ed,  and  started  back  with  wonder. 

A  rude  form,  clad  in  tattered  garments,  crouched  on  the  sod  beside  the 
fountain.  His  war-worn  face  was  laid  against  the  bank,  while  his  unshaven 
beard,  white  as  snow,  gleamed  in  the  light.  His  coat,  which  had  once  been 
bright  scarlet,  betrayed  the  old  soldier.  There  was  dust  upon  his  gaiters, 
and  his  much  worn  shoes  could  scarce  conceal  his  galled  feet. 

As  he  slept  he  grasped  his  staff,  and  thrust  one  hand  within  the  breast 
of  his  coal.  His  slumber  was  disturbed ;  he  seemed  laboring  under  the 


THE    SISTERS.  261 

fears  and  hopes  of  some  tumultuous  dream.  Suddenly,  starting  to  his  feet, 
with  a  horrible  cry,  he  gazed  wildly  round,  aud  trembled,  while  the  clammy 
moisture  stood  in  beads  upon  his  brow. 

'Who  are  you  ?     Back!     You  shall  not  kill  me!"  he  cried,  and  put 
himself  in  an  attitude  of  defence. 

"  It  is  the  old  Soldier,  who  went  with  my  Son  to  the  wars  !"  cried  the 
Mother — "  Abel,  don't  you  know  us  ?" 

The  effect  of  his  dream  passed  away,  and  the  aged  Soldier  advanced,  his 
hard  hand  pressed  by  the  warm  fingers  of  the  young  girls.  As  he  stood 
before  them,  his  eyes  seemed  to  avoid  their  gaze — now  downcast — now 
wandering  on  either  side — his  sunburnt  face  was  flushed  with  a  warm 
glow. 

"  Speak  !     Our  Brother  !"  faltered  the  girls. 

"  My  Son  !      You  bear  a  message  from  him  ?"  exclaimed  the  Mother. 
The  old  Soldier  was  silent. 

"  Your  Son  ?    You  mean  my  Master— eh  ?    The  Major — "  he  hesitated. 
"  Why  have  you  returned  home  ?     Is  the  war  over  ?"  exclaimed  Mary. 
"  Ah — Brother  is  on  his  way  home — he  will  be  here  presently — whal  a 
delightful  surprise  !"  cried  Alice. 

Still  the  Soldier  stood  silent  and  confused,  his  hands  pressed  together, 
while  his  douncast  eyes  wandered  over  the  sod. 

"  My  goodness,  ladies — "  he  muttered — "  Have  n't  you  received  a  letter? 
Sir  Henry  wrote  to  you,  Ma'am,  and  — " 

"  Sir  Henry  write  to  me  ?"  echoed  the  Mother,  her  face  growing  deathly 
pale — "  Why  did  not  my  son  write  himself?" 

And  the  sisters,  laid  each  of  them,  a  hand  on  the  veteran's  arm  and  looked 
up  eagerly  into  his  rough  visage. 

His  nether  lip  quivered  ;  his  eyes  rolled  strangely  in  their  sockets.  He 
endeavored  to  speak  but  there  was  a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat;  all 
the  blood  in  his  frame  seemed  rushing  to  his  eyes. 

"  I  can't  tell  it !  God  help  me  and  forgiv'  my  sins,  I  aint  strong  enough 
to  tell  it !  Ladies,  can't  you  guess — you  see — the  Major — " 

Through  the  gathering  gloom  of  twilight,  the  Mother  looked  and  beheld 
his  emotion,  and  felt  her  soul  palzied  by  a  terrible  fear.  You  may  see 
Alice,  stand  there,  gazing  on  the  soldier  with  surprise  ;  Mary,  that  stately 
sister,  is  by  her  side,  her  face  white  as  a  shroud. 

They  stood  like  figures  of  stone  placed  in  the  midst  of  the  wood,  with 
the  moss  beneath,  and  the  autumnal  leaves  above.      The  sound  of  the  foun 
tain  gurgling  over  the  grey  rocks  alone  disturbed  the  silence  of  the  air. 
The  bluff  old  veteran  stumbled  forward,  and  fell  on  his  knees. 
"  Look  ye, — I'm  rough — I  aint  afraid  of  man  or  devil,  but  I'm  afraid 

now  !    Don't  force  me  to  speak  it " 

Adown  that  sunburnt  face,  slowly  trickled  two  large  and  scalding  tears. 
You  see  the  Mother,  her  face  manifesting  sudden  traces  of  that  agony 


262  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

which  now  comes  with  overwhelming  force,  and  takes  her  soul  by  storm, 
you  see  her  advance  and  take  the  veteran  by  the  hand. 

"  Rise,  friend  Abel  !"  she  said,  in  a  voice  of  unnatural  calmness.  "  I 
know  your  message.  My  son  is  dead." 

The  Soldier  bowed  his  head  and  gave  free  vent  to  his  tears. 

Alice  hears  that  word,  and  shrinks  toward  yonder  tree,  her  eyes  covered 
in  a  strange  mist,  her  heart  suddenly  palsied  in  its  beatings.  The  Mother 
stands  as  calm,  as  pale  as  a  corse. 

Mary  alone  advances,  gasps  these  words  as  with  the  last  effort  of  her 
life— 

"  He  died  in  battle — at  the  head  of  his  men — Speak  !  A  soldier's 
death " 

Transformed  in  every  nerve,  she  quivered  before  him,  her  fingers  clutch 
ing  his  iron  arms,  her  eyes  flashing  a  death-like  glare  into  his  face.  Her 
falling  hair  sweeping  back  from  her  face,  completed  that  picture  of  a  sinless 
Aiiaiden,  trembling  on  the  verge  of  madness. 

The  old  Soldier  looked  up  and  answered  her : 

"He  died  on  the  Second  of  October,  at  the  hour  of  twelve — on  the  Gibbet 
—as  a  spy." 

These  words,  in  a  hollow  yet  deliberate  voice,  he  slowly  uttered,  and  the 
Mother  and  the  Sisters  heard  it  all !  Heard  it,  and  could  not,  at  the  mo 
ment,  die  ! 

God  pity  them,  in  this  their  fearful  hour. 

The  Mother  sank  on  her  knees.  Alice,  the  fair-haired  and  gentle,  tottered 
and  fell,  as  though  her  life  had  passed  with  that  long  and  quivering  shriek. 

The  rough  soldier  wept  aloud. 

Mary,  alone,  stood  erect :  her  pale  countenance  thrown  into  strong  relief 
by  her  dark  flowing  hair,  her  eyes  glassy,  her  lips  livid,  her  form  towering 
in  marble-like  majesty. 

And  as  she  stood — as  though  suddenly  frozen  into  marble — her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  heavens,  visible  through  the  intervals  of  the  forest  trees. 

The  last  flush  of  sunset  had  died,  and  the  first  star  came  twinkling  out 
oil  the  blue  walls  of  space. 

Only  one  expression  passed  her  lips.  Stifling  the  horrible  agony  of  that 
moment,  she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  that  light  in  heaven,  and  said — 

"  IT  is  MY  BROTHER'S  STAR  !" 

XX.— ANDRE    THE    SPY. 

WE  have  now  traversed  the  career  of  the  ill-fated  Andre  in  all  its  changes 
of  scene,  in  its  varied  phases  of  absorbing  interest. 

Pity  that  young  man  if  you  will,  plant  flowers  over  his  grave,  sing  hymns 
la  his  memory,  but  remember,  he  was  a  SPY. 

That  dishonored  thing,  which  no  true  warrior  can  look  upon,  save  with 


ANDRE   THE    SPY.  263 

loathing — not  merely  a  Conspirator,  nor  a  Traitor,  but  the  .acquey  of  Tre  i 
son — A  SPY. 

KeiLember,  that  the  wife  of  Benedict  Arnold,  on  terms  of  intimate  friend 
ship  with  Andre,  while  the  British  held  Philadelphia,  corresponded  with 
him  long  after  her  marriage,  and  then  call  to  mind  a  single  fact :  her  cor 
respondence  was  the  channel  of  communication  between  Arnold  and  the 
British  General.  Can  we,  with  any  show  of  reason,  suppose  this  wife 
innocent  of  participation  in  the  treason  of  her  husband  ?  Is  it  at  all  plausible, 
or  probable,  that  she  was  ignorant  of  the  contents  of  Arnold's  letters  ? 

Remember  that  Andre  was  a  partner  in  this  conspiracy,  from  the  first 
moment  of  its  dawn,  until  by  his  manly  letter  to  Washington,  he  avowed 
himself  a  British  officer,  captured  in  disguise,  on  American  ground.  He 
was  elevated  to  a  Majority,  dignified  with  the  post  of  Adjutant  General,  in 
order  that  he  might  more  effectually  carry  out  the  plan,  originated  between 
himself  and  Arnold.  lie  was  to  enter  West  Point,  not  as  an  open  foe, 
ready  to  combat  with  his  enemies  on  the  ramparts  of  the  fortress,  but  as  a 
Conspirator  ;  he  was  to  conquer  the  stronghold,  laid  defenceless  by  the  re 
moval  of  the  Continental  force,  by  a  juggle,  and  wreathe  his  brows  with  the 
parchments  of  a  purchased  victory. 

For  this,  his  promised  reward  was  the  commission  of  a  Brigadier  General. 

For  aiding  an  American  General  in  his  midnight  campaign  of  craft  and 
treachery,  he  was  to  receive  the  honors  that  are  awarded  to  a  Conqueror 
who  tights  in  broad  day  ;  for  taking  a  deserted  fort,  his  brows  were  to  be 
wreathed  with  laurel,  which  is  given  to  the  leader  of  a  forlorn  hope,  who 
dares  the  sternest  front  of  battle  without  a  fear. 

With  all  his  talent — displayed  as  an  Artist,  a  Poet,  and  a  Soldier — with 
all  the  genius  which  made  him  an  admirable  companion,  with  all  the  chiv 
alry  which  won  praise  and  tears  from  his  enemies,  with  all  the  rich  cluster 
of  his  gifts,  and  the  dim  memories  that  gather  round  his  name,  we  must 
confess,  that  he  was  one  of  the  originator's  of  Arnold's  Treason,  that  he 
descended  to  a  course  of  intrigue,  beneath  the  honor  of  a  warrior,  that  he 
was  justly  condemned  and  hung  as  a  Spy. 

There  is  one  dark  thought  that  crowds  upon  us  as  we  survey  this  history. 
We  may  endeavor  to  banish  it,  but  it  will  come  back  with  overwhelming 
force.  It  starts  from  the  history,  and  moves  along  every  page,  a  brooding 
and  fearful  shadow. — John  Andre  and  the  Wife  of  Arnold,  first  planned 
the  Treason,  and  then — while  his  heart  was  lacerated  by  a  sense  of  his 
ivrongs — lured  him  into  the  plot. 

That  is  a  startling  thought. 

There  is  no  point  of  Washington's  career  more  thoroughly  worthy  of  our 
veneration,  than  his  course  in  relation  to  Andre.  He  did  not  know — he 
could  not  guess  the  extent  or  ramifications  of  the  Treason.  A  base  ph»n 
had  been  laid  to  capture  a  Fortress  and  crush  his  army.  This  plan  aided 
by  an  honorable  gentleman  in  the  guise  of  a  Spy.  It  was  necessary  tc 


264  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

make  an  example,  the  time  had  come  for  the  British  General  to  learn  me 
bitter  truth,  that  the  American  leader  was  no  less  ready  to  meet  his  foes, 
sword  in  hand  in  battle,  than  to  hang  them  on  the  gibbet's  timbers  as  Spies. 

At  once  he  stood  resolved  in  his  course.  Andre  must  die.  No  persua 
sions  could  change  his  firm  purpose.  He  pitied  the  victim,  but  condemned 
him  to  death.  He  wept  for  his  untimely  fate,  but  hung  him  on  a  gibbet. 
His  heart  bled  as  he  signed  the  death-warrant,  but  still  he  consigned  Andre 
to  a  felon's  grave. 

There  have  been  many  tears  shed  over  Andre,  but  while  I  pity  him,  I 
must  confess  that  my  tears  are  reserved  for  the  thousand  victims  of  British 
wrong,  murdered  during  the  war.  Then  the  thought  of  Benedict  Arnold, 
hurled  from  the  Patriot  and  the  Horo,  into  the  Bandit  and  Traitor,  as  much 
by  the  persecutions  of  his  enemies,  as  by  his  own  faults,  as  much  from  the 
influence  of  Andre  and  his  own  wife,*  as  from  inclination,  has  for  me  an  in 
terest  that  altogether  surpasses  the  fate  of  the  Spy. 

The  historical  pictures  which  I  have  placed  before  you,  show  the  mys 
tery  in  every  light.  I  have  endeavored  to  embody  in  these  pictures  the 
manners,  the  costume,  the  contending  opinions,  the  very  spirit  of  the  Reso 
lution.  Let  me  now  present  to  you  another  illustration,  in  order  to  show, 
that  the  British  in  a  case  similar  to  that  of  Andre,  never  indulged  one  throb 
of  pity. 

Behold  the  Mercy  of  King  George  ! 

XXI.— NATHAN    HALE. 

IT  was  a  calm,  clear  evening  in  the  early  spring  of  1775,  when  a  young 
man  came  to  his  native  home,  to  bid  his  aged  mother  farewell. 

I  see  that  picture  before  me  now. 

A  two-story  house,  built  of  grey  stone,  with  a  small  garden  extending 
from  the  door  to  the  roadside,  while  all  around  arise  the  orchard  trees, 
fragrant  with  the  first  blossoms  of  spring.  Yonder  you  behold  the  liay- 
rick  and  the  barn,  with  the  lowing  cattle  grouped  together  in  the  shadows. 

It  is  a  quiet  hour  ;  everything  seems  beautiful  and  holy.  There  is  a  pur 
ple  flush  upon  the  Western  sky,  a  sombre  richness  of  shadow  resting  upon 
yonder  woods  ;  a  deep  serenity,  as  if  from  God,  imbues  and  hallows  this 
evening  hour. 

Yonder  on  the  cottage  porch,  with  the  rich  glow  of  the  sunset  on  her 
face,  sits  the  aged  mother,  the  silvery  hair  parted  above  her  pale  brow. 
The  Bible  lays  open  on  her  knees.  Her  dress  is  of  plain  rude  texture,  but 
there  is  that  about  her  countenance  which  makes  you  forget  her  homespun 


*  It  is  stated  on  the  authority  of  Aaron  Burr,  that  the  Wife  of  the  Traitor,  after 
she  joined  her  husband  in  the  British  lines,  expressed  her  contempt  for  the  American 
cause,  sanctioned  the  course  of  Arnold,  and  uttered  other  expressions  of  feeling, 
which  showed  that  she  was  a  co-partner  in  the  work  of  Treason. 


NATHAN    HALE.  265 

sostume.  Her  eyes,  their  dark  blue  contrasting  with  the  withered  outlines 
af  her  countenance,  are  upraised.  She  is  gazing  in  the  face  of  the  son, 
who  bends  over  her  shoulder  and  returns  her  glance. 

His  young  form  is  arrayed  in  a  plain  blue  hunting  frock,  faced  with  fur 
while  his  rifle  rests  against  the  door,  and  his  pistols  are  girded  to  his  waist 
by  a  belt  of  dark  leather.  A  plain  costume  this,  but  gaze  upon  the  face  of 
that  young  man  and  tell  me,  do  you  not  read  a  clear  soul,  shining  from  those 
dark  eyes  ?  That  white  brow,  shadowed  by  masses  of  brown  hair,  bears 
the  impress  of  Thought,  while  the  pale  cheek  tells  the  story  of  long  nights 
given  to  the  dim  old  Hebrew  Bible,  with  its  words  of  giant  meaning  and 
organ-like  music  ;  to  the  profane  classics  of  Greece  and  Rome,  the  sublime 
reveries  of  Plato,  the  impassioned  earnestness  of  Demosthenes,  or  the  in 
dignant  eloquence  of  Cicero. 

Yes,  fresh  from  the  halls  of  Yale,  the  poetry  of  the  Past,  shining  se 
renely  in  his  soul,  to  his  childhood's  home,  comes  the  young  student  to 
claim  his  mother's  blessing  and  bid  her  a  long  farewell. 

But  why  this  rifle,  these  pistols,  this  plain  uniform  ? 

I  will  tell  you. 

One  day,  as  he  sat  bending  over  that  Hebrew  Volume — with  its  great 
thoughts  spoken  in  a  tongue  now  lost  to  man,  in  the  silence  of  ages — he 
looked  from  his  window  and  beheld  a  dead  body  carried  by,  the  glassy  eyes 
upturned  to  the  sky,  while  the  stiffened  limb  hung  trailing  on  the  ground. 

It  was  the  first  dead  man  of  Lexington. 

That  sight  roused  his  blood  ;  the  voice  of  the  Martyrs  of  Bunker  Hill 
seemed  shrieking  forever  in  his  ears.  He  flung  aside  the  student's  gown  ; 
he  put  on  the  hunting  shirt.  A  sad  farewell  to  those  well-worn  volumes, 
which  had  cheered  the  weariness  of  many  a  midnight  watch,  one  last  look 
around  that  lonely  room,  whose  walls  had  heard  his  earnest  soliloquies  ; 
and  then  he  was  a  soldier. 

The  Child  of  Genius  felt  the  strong  cords  of  Patriotism,  drawing  him 
toward  the  last  bed  of  the  Martyrs  on  Bunker  Hill. 

And  now  in  the  sunset  hour,  he  stands  by  his  mother's  side,  taking  the 
one  last  look  at  that  wrinkled  face,  listening  for  the  last  time  to  the  tremu 
lous  tones  of  that  solemn  voice. 

"  I  did  hope,  my  child,"  said  the  aged  woman,  "  I  did  hope  to  see  you 
ministering  at  the  altar  of  Almighty  God,  but  the  enemy  is  in  the  land,  and 
your  duty  is  plain  before  you.  Go,  my  son — fight  like  a  man  for  your 
country.  In  the  hour  of  battle  remember  that  God  is  with  your  cause  : 
that  His  arm  will  guide  and  guard  you,  even  in  the  moment  of  death. 
War,  my  child,  is  at  best  a  fearful  thing,  a  terrible  license  for  human 
butchery  ;  but  a  war  like  this,  is  holy  in  the  eyes  of  God.  Go — and  when 
you  fight,  may  you  conquer,  or  if  you  fall  in  death,  remember  your 
nnther's  blessing  is  on  your  head  !" 
17 


266  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

And  in  that  evening  hour,  the  aged  woman  stood  erect,  and  laid  her 
withered  hand  upon  his  bended  head. 

A  moment  passed,  and  he  had  grasped  his  rifle,  he  had  muttered  the  last 
farewell.  While  the  aged  woman  stood  on  the  porch,  following  him  with 
her  eyes,  he  turned  his  steps  towards  the  road. 

But  a  form  stood  in  his  path,  the  form  of  a  young  woman  clad  in  the 
plain  costume  of  a  New  England  girl.  Do  you  behold  a  voluptuous 
beauty  waving  in  the  outlines  of  that  form  ?  Is  the  hair  dark  as  night,  or 
long,  glossy,  waving  and  beautiful  ?  Are  those  hands  soft,  white  and  deli 
cate  ?  You  behold  none  of  these  ;  for  the  young  girl  who  stands  there  in 
the  student's  path,  has  none  of  the  dazzling  attraction  of  personal  beauty. 
A  slender  form,  a  white  forehead,  with  the  brown  hair  plainly  parted  around 
that  unpretending  countenance,  hands  somewhat  roughened  by  toil;  such 
were  the  attractions  of  that  New  England  girl. 

And  yet  there  was  a  something  that  chained  your  eyes  to  her  face,  and 
made  your  heart  swell  as  you  looked  upon  her.  It  was  the  soul,  which 
shone  from  her  eyes  and  glowed  over  her  pallid  cheek.  It  was  the  deep, 
ardent  all-trusting  love,  the  eternal  faith  of  her  woman's  nature,  which  gave 
such  deep  vivid  interest  to  that  plain  face,  that  pale  white  brow. 

She  stood  there,  waiting  to  bid  her  lover  farewell,  and  the  tear  was  in 
her  eye,  the  convulsive  tremor  of  suppressed  emotion  on  her  lip.  Yet 
with  an  unfaltering  voice,  she  bade  him  go  fight  for  his  country  and  con 
quer  in  the  name  of  God. 

"  Or" — she  exclaimed,  placing  her  hands  against  his  breast,  while  her 
eyes  were  rivetted  to  his  face,  "  should  you  fall  in  the  fight,  I  will  pray  God 
to  bless  your  last  hour  with  all  the  glory  of  a  soldier's  death  !" 

That  was  the  last  words  she  said  ;  he  grasped  her  hand,  impressed  his 
kiss  upon  her  lip,  and  went  slowly  from  his  home. 

When  we  look  for  him  again,  the  scene  is  changed.  It  is  night,  yet, 
through  the  gloom,  the  white  tents  of  the  British  army  rise  up  like  ghosts 
on  the  summit  of  the  Long  Island  hills.  It  is  night,  yet  the  stars  look 
down  upon  that  Red  Cross  banner  now  floating  sullenly  to  the  ocean  breeze. 

We  look  for  the  Enthusiast  of  Yale  !  Yonder,  in  a  dark  room,  through 
whose  solitary  window  pours  the  mild  gleam  of  the  stars,  yonder  we  behold 
the  dusky  outlines  of  a  human  form,  with  head  bent  low  and  arms  folded 
over  the  chest.  It  is  very  dark  in  the  room,  very  still,  yet  can  you  dis 
cover  the  bearing  of  the  soldier  in  the  uncertain  outline  of  that  form,  yet  can 
you  hear  the  tread  of  the  sentinel  on  the  sands  without. 

Suddenly  that  form  arises,  and  draws  near  the  solitary  window.  The 
stars  gleam  over  a  pale  face,  with  eyes  burning  with  unnatural  light.  It  is 
dusky  and  dim,  the  faint  light,  but  still  you  can  read  the  traces  of  agony 
like  death,  anguish  like  despair  stamped  on  the  brow,  anc!  cheek,  and  lip 
of  that  youthful  countenance. 


NATHAN    HALE.  267 

You  can  hear  a  single,  low  toned  moan,  a  muttered  prayer,  a  broken 
ejaculation.  Those  eyes  are  upraised  to  the  stars,  and  then  the  pale  face 
no  longer  looks  from  the  window.  That  form  slowly  retires,  and  is  lost  in 
the  darkness  of  the  room. 

Meanwhile,  without  the  room,  on  yonder  slope  of  level  ground,  crowning 
the  ascent  of  the  hill,  the  sound  of  hammer  and  saw  breaks  on  the  silence 
of  the  hour.  Dim  forms  go  to  and  fro  in  the  darkness  ;  stout  pieces  of 
timber  are  planted  in  the  ground,  and  at  last  the  work  is  done.  All  is  still. 
But,  like  a  phantom  of  evil,  from  the  brow  of  yonder  hill  arises  that  strange 
structure  of  timber,  with  the  rope  dangling  from  its  summit. 

There  is  a  face  gazing  from  yonder  window,  at  this  thing  of  evil ;  a  face 
with  lips  pressed  between  the  teeth,  eyes  glaring  with  unnatural  light. 

Suddenly  a  footstep  is  heard,  the  door  of  that  room  is  flung  open,  and  a 
blaze  of  light  fills  the  place.  In  the  door-way  stands  a  burly  figure,  clad  in 
the  British  uniform,  with  a  mocking  sneer  upon  that  brutal  countenance. 

The  form — which  we  lately  beheld  in  the  gloom — now  rises,  and  con- 
fronts  the  British  soldier.  It  needs  no  second  glance  to  tell  us  that  we  be 
hold  the  Enthusiast  of  Yale.  That  dress  is  soiled  and  torn,  that  face  is 
sunken  in  the  cheeks,  wild  and  glaring  in  the  eyes,  yet  we  can  recognize 
the  brave  youth  who  went  forth  from  his  home  on  that  calm  evening  in 
spring. 

He  confronts  the  Executioner,  for  that  burly  figure  in  the  handsome  red 
coat,  with  the  glittering  ornaments,  is  none  other  than  the  Provost  of  the 
British  army. 

"  I  am  to  die  in  the  morning,"  began  the  student,  or  prisoner  as  you  may 
choose  to  call  him. 

"  Yes,"  growled  the  Provost,  "  you  were  taken  as  a  spy,  tried  as  a  spy, 
sentenced  as  a  spy,  and  to-morrow  morning,  you  will  be  hanged  as  a  spy  !" 

That  was  the  fatal  secret.  General  Washington  desired  information  from 
Long  Island,  where  the  British  encamped.  A  young  soldier  appeared,  his 
face  glowing  with  a  high  resolve.  He  would  go  to  Long  Island  ;  he  would 
examine  the  enemy's  posts  ;  he  would  peril  his  life  for  Washington.  Nay, 
he  would  peril  more  than  his  life  ;  he  would  peril  his  honor.  For  the  sol 
dier  who  dies  in  the  bloody  onset  of  a  forlorn  hope,  dies  in  honor  :  but  the 
man  who  is  taken  as  a  spy,  swings  on  the  gibbet,  an  object  of  loathing  and 
scorn.  But  this  young  soldier  would  dare  it  all ;  the  gallows  and  the  dis 
honor  :  all  for  the  sake  of  Washington.  - 

"  General,"  was  the  sublime  expression  of  the  Enthusiast,  "  when  I  vol 
unteered  in  the  army  of  liberty,  it  was  my  intention  to  devote  my  soul  to 
the  cause.  It  is  not  for  me  now  to  choose  the  manner  or  the  method  of 
the  service  which  I  am  to  perform.  I  only  ask,  in  what  capacity  does  my 
country  want  me.  You  tell  me  that  I  will  render  her  great  service  by  this 
expedition  to  Long  Island.  All  I  can  answer  is  with  one  word — bid  me 
depart  and  I  will  go  '" 


268  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

He  went,  obtained  the  information  which  he  sought,,  and  was  about  tc 
leave  the  shore  of  the  Island  for  New  York,  when  he  was  discovered. 

Now,  in  the  chamber  of  the  condemned  felon,  he  awaited  the  hour  of  hi* 
late,  his  face  betraying  deep  emotion,  yet  it  was  not  the  agitation  of  fear 
Death  he  could  willingly  face,  but  the  death  of  the  Gibbet ! 

He  now  approached  the  British  officer,  and  spoke  in  a  calm,  yet  hollow 
voice  : 

"  My  friend,  I  am  to  die  to-morrow.  It  is  well.  I  have  no  regrets  to 
spend  upon  my  untimely  fate.  But  as  the  last  request  of  a  dying  man,  lei 
me  implore  you  to  take  charge  of  these  letters." 

He  extended  some  four  or  five  letters,  among  which  was  one  to  his  be 
trothed,  one  to  his  mother,  and  one  to  Washington. 

"  Promise  me,  that  you  will  have  these  letters  delivered  after  I  am  dead." 
The  Briton  shifted  the  lamp  from  one  hand  to  the  other,  and  then  with 
an  oath,  made  answer . 

"  By ,  I'll  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  letters  of  a  spy  !" 

The  young  man  dropped  the  letters  on  the  floor,  as  though  a  bullet  had 
torn  them  from  his  grasp.  His  head  sunk  on  his  breast.  The  cup  of  his 
agony  was  full. 

"  At  least,"  said  he,  lifting  his  large  bright  eyes,  "  at  least,  you  will  pro 
cure  me  a  Bible,  you  will  send  me  a  clergyman  ? — I  am  ready  to  die,  but  1 
wish  to  die  the  death  of  a  Christian." 

*«  You  should  have  thought  o'  these  things  before,  young  man,"  exclaimed 
the  Liveried  Hangman.  "  As  for  Bible  or  Preacher,  I  can  tell  you  at  once, 
that  you  '11  get  neither  through  me." 

The  young  man  sank  slowly  in  his  chair,  and  covered  his  face  with  his 
hznds.  The  brave  Briton,  whose  courage  had  been  so  beautifully  mani 
fested  in  these  last  insults  to  a  dying  man,  stood  regarding  the  object  of  his 
spite  with  a  brutal  scowl. 

Ere  a  moment  was  gone,  the  young  man  looked  up  again,  and  exclaimed  : 
"  For  the  love  of  Christ,  do  not  deny  me  the  consolations  of  religion  iu 
this  hour!" 

A  loud  laugh  echoed  around  the  room,  and  the  Condemned  Spy  was  in 
darkness. 

Who  shall  dare  to  lift  the  veil  from  that  Enthusiast's  heart,  and  picture 
the  agony  which  shook  his  soul,  during  the  slow-moving  hours  of  his  last 
night  ?  Now  his  thoughts  were  with  his  books,  the  classics  of  Greece  and 
Rome,  or  the  pages  of  Hebrew  volume,  where  the  breeze  of  Palestine  swells 
ever  the  waves  of  Jordan,  and  the  songs  of  Israel  resound  forevermore  ; 
now  with  his  aged  mother,  or  his  betrothed  ;  and  then  a  vision  of  that  great 
course  of  glory  which  his  life  was  to  have  been,  came  home  to  his  soul. 

That  course  of  glory,  those  high  aspirations,  those  yearnings  of  Genius 
after  the  Ideal,  were  now  to  be  cut  off  forever  by — the  Gibbet's  rope  ! 
]  will  confess,  that  to  me,  there  is  something  terrible  in  the  last  night  ot 


NATHAJN    HALE.  269 

the  Condemned  Spy.  Never  does  my  eye  rest  upon  the  page  of  American 
history,  that  I  do  not  feel  for  his  fate,  and  feel  more  bitterly,  when  I  think 
of  the  injustice  of  that  history.  Yes,  let  the  truth  be  spoken,  our  history 
is  terribly  unjust  to  the  poor — the  neglected — the  Martyrs,  whose  fate  it 
was,  not  to  suffer  in  the  storm  of  battle,  but  in  the  cell,  or  by  the  gibbet's 
.ope.  How  many  brave  hearts  were  choked  to  death  by  the  rope,  or  buried 
beneath  the  cells  of  the  gaol,  after  the  agonies  of  fever !  Where  do  you 
find  their  names  in  history  ? 

And  the  young  man,  with  a  handsome  form,  a  born  of  God  genius,  a 
highly  educated  mind — tell  us,  is  there  no  tear  for  him  ? 

We  weep  for  Andre,  and  yet  he  was  a  mere  Gambler,  who  staked  his 
life  against  a  General's  commission.  We  plant  flowers  over  his  grave,  and 
yet  he  wa»  a  plotter  from  motives  altogether  mercenary — We  sing  hymns 
about  him,  and  yet  with  all  his  accomplishments,  he  was  one  of  the  main 
causes  of  Arnold's  ruin  ;  he  it  was  who  helped  to  drag  the  Patriot  down 
into  the  Traitor. 

But  this  young  man,  who  watches  his  last  night  on  yonder  Long  Island 
shore — where  are  tears  for  him  ? 

Night  passed  away,  and  morning  came  at  last.  Then  they  led  him  forth 
to  the  sound  of  the  muffled  drum  and  measured  footsteps.  Then — without 
a  Bible,  of  Preacher  or  friend,  not  even  a  dog  to  wail  for  him,  they  placed 
him  beneath  the  gibbet,  under  that  blue  sky,  with  the  pine  coffin  before  his 
eyes. 

Stern  looks,  scowling  brows,  red  uniforms  and  bristling  bayonets,  were 
all  around, — but  for  him,  the  Enthusiast  and  the  Genius,  where  was  the 
kind  voice  or  the  tender  hand  ? 

Yet  in  that  hour,  the  breeze  kissed  his  cheek,  and  the  vision  of  Manhat 
tan  Bay,  with  its  foam-crested  waves  and  green  Islands,  was  like  a  dream 
of  peace  to  his  soul. 

The  rough  hands  of  the  Hangman  tied  his  hands  and  bared  his  neck  for 
the  rope.  Then,  standing  on  the  death-cart,  with  the  rope  about  his  neck, 
and  Eternity  before  him,  that  young  man  was  very  pale,  but  calm,  collec 
ted  and  firm.  Then  he  called  the  brutal  soldiery  the  Refugee  Hangman,  to 
witness  that  he  had  but  one  regret — 

And  that  regret  not  for  his  aged  mother,  not  even  for  his  meek-eyed  be 
trothed,  not  even  for  the  darkness  of  that  hour, — but,  said  the  Martyr, 

"I  regret  that  I  have  only  one  life  to  lose  for  my  country." 

That  was  his  last  word,  for  ere  the  noble  sentiment  was  cold  on  his  lips, 
they  choked  him  to  death.  The  horse  moved,  the  cart  passed  from  under 
his  feet ;  the  Martyr  hung  dangling  in  the  air  !  Where  was  now  that  clear 
white  brow,  that  brilliant  eye,  that  well  formed  mouth  ?  Look — yes,  look 
and  behold  that  thing  palpitating  with  agony — behold  that  thing  suspended 
in  the  air,  with  a  blackened  mass  of  flesh  instead  of  a  face. 

Above,  the  bright  sky — around,  the  crowd — far  away,  the  free  waves — 


270  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

And  yet  here,  tosses  and  plunges  the  image  of  God,  tied  by  the  neck   to  a 
gibbet ! 

Like  a  dog  he  died — like  a  dog  they  buried  him.  No  Preacher,  m- 
prayer,  no  friend,  not  even  a  dog  to  howl  over  his  grave.  There  was  only 
a  pine  box  and  a  dead  body,  with  a  few  of  the  vilest  wretches  of  the  Bri 
tish  camp.  That  was  the  Martyr's  funeral. 

At  this  hour,  while  I  speak, — in  the  dim  shadows  of  Westminster  Abbey, 
a  white  monument  arises  in  honor  of  John  Andre,  whose  dishonorable 
actions  were,  in  some  measure,  forgotten  in  pity  for  his  hideous  death. 

But  this  man  of  Genius,  who  went  forth  from  the  halls  of  YALE,  to  die 
like  a  dog,  for  his  country,  on  the  heights  of  Long  Island — where  is  the 
marble  pillar,  carved  with  the  letters  of  his  name  ? 

And  yet  we  will  remember  him,  and  love  him,  foreverrnore.  And  should 
the  day  come,  when  a  Temple  will  be  erected  to  the  Memory  of  the 
Heroes  of  the  Revolution — the  Man-Gods  of  our  Past — then,  beneath  the 
light  of  that  temple's  dome,  among  the  sculptured  images  of  Washington 
and  his  compatriots,  we  will  place  one  poor  broken  column  of  New  Eng 
land  granite,  surmounted  by  a  single  leaf  of  laurel,  inscribed  with  the 
motto — "Jllas  that  I  have  but  one  life  for  my  country .'"  and  this  poor 
column,  and  leaf  of  laurel  and  motto,  shall  be  consecrated  with  the  name  of 

NATHAN  HALE. 


Do  you  now  condemn  Washington  for  signing  the  death-warrant  of 
Andre  ? 

The  British  visited  their  anathemas  upon  his  head,  denounced  him  as  a 
cold-blooded  murderer,  and  talked  long  and  loud  of  the  '  CRUEL  Washington.' 

Their  poets  made  rhymes  about  the  matter.  Miss  Seward,  one  of  those 
amiable  ladies  who  drivel  whole  quires  of  diluted  adjectives,  under  the 
name  of  Poetry,  addressed  some  stanzas  to  Washington,  which  were  filled 
with  bitter  reproaches.  Even  their  historians  echoed  the  charge  of  cruelty, 
and  assailed  that  Man  whose  humanity  was  never  called  in  question. 

Let  us,  after  the  case  of  Nathan  Hale,  look  at  another  instance  of  British 
humanity.  Let  us  see  how  the  British  leaders  spared  the  unfortunate,  let 
us  contrast  their  ruthless  ferocity,  with  the  Mercy  of  Washington. 

XXII.— THE  MARTYR  OF  THE  SOUTH. 

THERE  is  a  gloom  to-day  in  Charleston. 

It  is  not  often  that  a  great  city  feels,  but  when  this  great  heart  of  human- 
ty  whose  every  pulsation  is  a  life,  can  feel,  the  result  is  more  terrible  than 
the  bloodiest  battle.  Yes,  when  those  arteries  of  a  city,  its  streets,  and 
lanes,  and  alleys,  thrill  with  the  same  feeling,  when  like  an  electric  chain  it 
darts  invisibly  from  one  breast  to  another,  until  it  swells  ten  thousand 
hearts,  the  result  is  terrible. 


THE  MARTYR  OF  THE  SOUTH.  271 

I  care  not  whether  that  result  is  manifested  in  a  Riot,  that  fills  the  streets 
with  the  blood  of  men,  and  women,  and  little  children,  that  fires  the  roof 
over  the  head  of  the  innocent,  or  sends  the  Church  of  God  whirling  in 
smoke  and  flame  to  the  midnight  sky  ;  or  whether  that  feeling  is  manifested 
in  the  silence  of  thousands,  the  bowed  head,  the  compressed  lip,  the 
stealthy  footstep,  still  it  is  a  fearful  thing  to  see. 
There  is  gloom  to-day  in  Charleston. 

A  dead  awe  reigns  over  the  city.  Every  face  you  see  is  stamped  with 
gloom  ;  men  go  silently  by,  with  anguish  in  their  hearts  and  eyes.  Wo 
men  are  weeping  in  their  darkened  chambers  ;  in  yonder  church  old  men 
are  kneeling  before  the  altar,  praying  in  low,  deep,  muttered  tones. 

The  very  soldiers  whom  you  meet,  clad  in  their  British  uniforms,  wear 
sadness  on  their  faces.  These  men  to  whom  murder  is  sport,  are  gloomy 
to-day.  The  citizens  pass  hurriedly  to  and  fro  ;  cluster  in  groups  ;  whispei 
together  ;  glide  silently  unto  their  homes. 

The  stores  are  closed  to-day,  as  though  it  were  Sunday.  The  windows 
of  those  houses  are  closed,  as  though  some  great  man  were  dead  ;  there  ia 
a  silence  on  the  air,  as  though  a  plague  had  despoiled  the  town  of  its  beauty 
and  its  manhood. 

The  British  banner — stained  as  it  is  with  the  best  blood  of  the  Palmetto 
State — seems  to  partake  of  the  influence  of  the  hour;  for  floating  from 
yonder  staff,  it  does  not  swell  buoyantly  upon  the  breeze,  but  droops  heavily 
to  the  ground.  4 

The  only  sound  you  hear,  save  the  hurried  tread  of  the  citizens,  is  the 
low,  solemn  notes  of  the  Dead  March,  groaning  from  muffled  drums. 

Why  all  this  gloom,  that  oppresses  the  heart  and  fills  the  eyes  ?  Why 
do  Whig  and  Tory,  citizen  and  soldier,  share  this  gloom  alike  ?  Why  this 
silence,  this  awe,  this  dread  ? 

Look  yonder,  and  in  the  centre  of  that  common,  deserted  by  every  hu 
man  thing,  behold — rising  in  lonely  hideousness — behold,  a  GALLOWS. 
Why  does  that  gibbet  stand  there,  blackening  in  the  morning  sun  ? 
Come  with  me  into  yonder  mansion,  whose  roof  arises  proudly  over  all 
other  roofs.      Up  these  carpeted  stairs,  info  this  luxurious  chamber,  whose 
windows  are  darkened  by  hangings  of  satin,  whose  walls  are  covered  with 
tapestry,  whose  floor  is  crowded  with  elegant  furniture.     All  is  silent  in  this 
chamber. 

A  single  glow  of  morning  light  steals  through  the  parted  curtains  of 
yonder  window.  Beside  that  window,  with  his  back  to  the  light,  his  face 
in  shadow,  as  though  he  wished  to  hide  certain  dark  thoughts  from  the  light, 
sits  a  young  man,  his  handsome  form  arrayed  in  a  British  uniform. 

He  is  young,  but  there  is  the  gloom  of  age  upon  that  woven  brow,  there 
is  the  resolve  of  murder  upon  that  curling  lip.  His  attitude  is  significant. — 
His  head  inclined  to  one  side,  the  cheek  resting  on  the  left  hand,  while  the 
right  grasps  a  parchment,  which  bears  his  signature,  the  ink  not  yet  dried. 


272  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

That  parchment  is  a  death-warrant. 

If  you  will  look  closely  upon  that  red  uniform  you  will  see  that  u  i* 
stained  with  the  blood  of  Paoli,  where  the  cry  for  "quarter"  was  answered 
by  the  falling  sword  and  the  reeking  bayonet.  Yes,  this  is  none  other  than 
General  Grey,  the  Butcher  of  Paoli,  transformed  by  the  accolade  of  his 
King  into  LORD  RAWDON. 

While  he  is  there  by  the  window,  grasping  that  parchment  in  his  hand, 
the  door  opens,  a  strange  group  stand  disclosed  on  the  threshhold. 

A  woman  and  three  children,  dressed  in  black,  stand  there  gazing  upon 
the  English  lord.  They  slowly  adyance  ;  do  you  behold  the  pale  face  of 
that  woman,  her  eyes  large  and  dark,  not  wet  with  tears,  but  glaring  witli 
speechless  woe  ?  On  one  side  a  little  girl  with  brown  ringlets,  on  the  other 
her  sister,  one  year  older,  with  dark  hair  relieving  a  pallid  face. 

Somewhat  in  front,  his  young  form  rising  to  every  inch  of  its  height, 
stands  a  boy  of  thirteen,  with  chesnut  curls,  clustering  about  his  fair  coun 
tenance.  You  can  see  that  dark  eye  flash,  that  lower  lip  quiver,  as  he 
silently  confronts  Lord  Rawdon. 

The  woman — I  use  that  word,  for  to  me  it  expresses  all  that  is  pure  in 
passion,  or  holy  in  humanity,  while  your  word — lady — means  nothing  but 
ribbons  and  rnilinery — the  woman  advances,  and  encircled  by  these  child 
ren,  stands  before  the  gloomy  lord. 

"  I  have  come,"  she  speaks  in  a  voice  that  strikes  you  with  its  music 
and  tenderness,  "  I  have  come  to  plead  for  my  brother's  life !" 

She  does  not  say,  behold,  my  brother's  children,  but  there  they  are,  and 
the  English  lord  beholds  them.  Tears  are  coursing  down  the  cheeks  of 
those  little  girls,  but  the  eye  of  the  woman  is  not  dim.  The  boy  of  thirteen 
looks  intently  in  the  face  of  the  Briton,  his  under  lip  quivering  like  a 
leuf. 

For  a  single  moment  that  proud  lord  raises  his  head  and  surveys  the 
group,  and  then  you  hear  his  deep  yet  melodious  voice  : 

"  Madam,  your  brother  swore  allegiance  to  His  Majesty,  and  was  after 
wards  taken  in  arms  against  his  King.  He  is  guilty  of  Treason,  and  must 
endure  the  penalty,  and  that,  you  well  know,  is  DEATH." 

"But,  my  lord,"  said  that  brave  woman,  standing  firm  and  erect,  her 
beauty  shining  more  serenely  in  that  moment  of  heroism,  "You  well  know 
the  circumstances  under  which  he  swore  allegiance.  He,  a  citizen  of  South 
Carolina,  an  American,  was  dragged  from  the  bedside  of  a  dying  wife,  and 
hurried  to  Charleston,  where  this  language  was  held  by  your  officers — 'Take 
the  oath  of  allegiance,  and  return  to  the  bedside  of  your  dying  wife  :  Refuse, 
and  we  will  consign  you  to  gaol.  This,  my  lord,  not  when  he  was  free  to 
act,  ah,  no  !  But  when  his  wife  lay  dying  of  that  fearful  disease — small  pox 
— which  had  already  destroyed  two  of  his  children.  How  could  he  act 
otherwise  than  he  did?  how  could  he  refuse  to  take  your  oath?  In  his 
case,  would  you,  my  lord,  would  any  man,  refuse  to  do  the  same  ?" 


THE  MARTYR    OF  THE  SOUTH  273 

Still  the  silent  children  stood  there  before  him,  while  the  clear  voice  oi 
the  true  woman  pierced  his  soul. 

"Your  brother  is  condemned  to  death  !  He  dies  at  noon.  I  can  do 
nothing  for  you  !" 

Silently  the  woman,  holding  a  little  girl  by  each  hand,  sank  on  her  knees  ; 
but  the  bov  of  thirteen  stood  erect.  Do  you  see  that  group  ?  Those  hands 
upraised,  those  voices,  the  clear  voice  of  the  woman,  the  infantile  tones  of 
those  sweet  girls,  mingling  in  one  cry  for  "Mercy  !"  while  the  Briton  looks 
upon  them  with  a  face  of  iron,  and  the  boy  of  thirteen  stands  erect,  no  tear 
in  his  eye,  but  a  convulsive  tremor  on  his  lip  ! 

Then  the  tears  of  that  woman  come  at  last — then  as  the  face  of  that  stern 
man  glooms  before  her,  she  takes  the  little  hands  of  the  girls  within  her 
own,  and  lifts  them  to  his  knee,  and  begs  him  to  spare  the  father's  life. 

Not  a  word  from  the  English  Lord. 

The  boy  still  firm,  erect  and  silent,  no  tear  dims  the  eye  which  glares 
steadily  in  the  face  of  the  tyrant. 

"Ah,  you  relent !"  shrieks  that  sister  of  the  condemned  man.  "  You 
will  not  deprive  these  children  of  a  father — you  will  not  cut  him  off  in  the 
prime  of  manhood,  by  this  hideous  death  !  As  you  hope  for  mercy  in 
your  last  hour,  be  merciful  now— spare  my  brother,  and  not  a  heart  in 
Charleston  but  will  bless  you — spare  him  for  the  sake  of  these  children  .'" 

"  Madam,"  was  the  cold  reply,  "your  brother  has  been  condemned  to 
die.  I  can  do  nothing  for  you  !" 

He  turned  his  head  away,  and  held  the  parchment  before  his  eyes.  At 
last  the  stem  heart  of  the  boy  was  melted.  There  was  a  spasmodic  motion 
about  his  chest,  his  limbs  shook,  he  stood  for  a  moment  like  a  statue,  and 
then  fell  on  his  knees,  seizing  the  right  hand  of  Lord  Rawdon  with  his 
trembling  fingers. 

Lord  Rawdon  looked  down  upon  that  young  face,  shadowed  with  ches- 
nut-curls,  as  the  small  hands  clutched  his  wrist,  and  an  expression  of  sur 
prise  came  over  his  face. 

"My  child,"  said  he,  "I  can  do  nothing  for  you  !" 

The  boy  silently  rose.  He  took  a  sister  by  each  hand.  There  was  a 
wild  light  in  his  young  eye — a  scorn  of  defiance  on  his  lip. 

"Come,  sisters,  let  us  go." 

He  said  this,  and  led  those  fair  girls  toward  the  door,  followed  by  the 
sister  of  the  condemned.  Not  a  word  more  was  said — but  ere  they  passed 
from  the  room,  that  true  woman  looked  back  into  the  face  of  Lord  Rawdon. 

He  never  forgot  that  look. 

They  were  gone  from  the  room,  and  he  stood  alone  before  that  window 
with  the  sunlight  pouring  over  his  guilty  brow. 

"Yes,  it  is  necessary  to  make  an  example  !  This  rebellion  must  be 
crushed ;  these  rebels  taught  submission  !  The  death  of  this  man  will 
strike  terror  into  their  hearts.  They  will  learn  at  last  that  treason  is  no 


274  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

trifling  game  ;  that  the  rope  and  the  gibbet  will  reward  each  Rebel  for  his 
crime  !" 

Poor  Lord  Rawdon ! 

The  streets  were  now  utterly  deserted.  Not  a  citizen,  a  soldier,  not 
even  a  negro  was  seen.  A  silence  like  death  rested  upon  the  city. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  the  dead  march  was  heard,  and  yonder  behold 
the  only  evidence  of  life  through  this  wide  city. 

On  yonder  common,  around  the  gibbet,  is  gathered  a  strangely  contrast- 
ed  crowd.  There  is  the  negro,  the  outcast  of  society,  the  British  officei 
in  his  uniform,  the  citizen  in  his  plain  dress.  All  are  grouped  together  in 
that  crowd. 

In  the  centre  of  the  dense  mass,  beside  that  horse  and  cart,  one  foot 
resting  on  that  coffin  of  pine,  stands  the  only  man  in  this  crowd  with  an 
uncovered  brow.  He  stands  there,  an  image  of  mature  manhood,  with  a 
muscular  form,  a  clear  full  eye,  a  bold  forehead.  His  cheek  is  not  pale, 
nor  his  eye  dim.  He  is  dressed  neatly  in  a  suit  of  dark  velvet,  made  after 
the  fashion  of  his  time  ;  one  hand  inserted  in  his  vest,  rests  on  his  heart. 

Above  his  head  dangles  the  rope.  Near  his  back  stands  that  figure  with 
the  craped  face  ;  around  are  the  British  soldiers,  separating  the  condemned 
from  the  crowd.  Among  all  thai  rude  band  of  soldiers,  not  an  eye  but  is 
wet  with  tears. 

The  brave  officer  there,  who  has  charge  of  the  murder,  pulls  his  chapeau 
over  his  eyes,  to  shield  them  from  the  sun,  or — can  it  be  ? — to  hide  his 
tears. 

All  is  ready.  He  has  bidden  the  last  farewell  to  his  sister,  his  children 
in  yonder  gaol ;  he  has  said  his  last  word  to  his  noble  boy,  pressed  his  last 
kiss  upon  the  lips  of  those  fair  girls.  All  is  ready  for  the  murder. 

At  this  moment  a  citizen  advances,  his  face  convulsed  with  emotion — 

"Hayne,"  he  speaks,  in  a  choking  voice,  "show  them  how  an  American 
can  die  !" 

"I  will  endeavor  to  do  so,"  was  the  reply  of  the  doomed  man. 

At  this  moment  the  hangman  advanced,  and  placed  the  cap  over  his  brow 
A  cry  was  heard  in  the  crowd,  a  footstep,  and  those  soldiers  shrank  back 
before  a  boy  of  thirteen,  who  came  rushing  forward. 

"Father  !"  he  shrieked,  as  he  beheld  the  condemned  with  the  cap  over 
his  brow. 

One  groan  arose  from  that  crowd — a  simultaneous  expression  of  horror. 

The  father  drew  the  cap  from  his  brow  :  beheld  the  wild  face,  the  glaring 
eyes  of  his  son. 

"God  bless  you,  my  boy,"  he  spoke,  gathering  that  young  form  to  his 
neart.  "Now  go,  and  leave  your  father  to  his  fate.  Return  when  I  am 
dead — receive  my  body,  and  have  it  buried  by  my  forefathers  !" 


THE   MARTYR   OF  THE  SOUTH.  275 

AS  the  boy  turned  and  went  through  the  crowd,  the  father  stepped  firmly 
into  the  cart. 

There  was  a  pause,  as  though  every  mail  in  that  crowd  was  suddenly 
turned  to  stone. 

The  boy  looked  back  but  once,  only  once,  and  then  beheld ah,  I  dare 

not  speak  it,  for  it  chills  the  blood  in  the  veins he  beheld  that  manly 

form  suspended  to  the  gibbet,  with  the  cap  over  his  brow,  while  the  dis 
torted  face  glowed  horribly  in  the  sun. 

That  was  his  FATHER  ! 

That  boy  did  not  shriek,  nor  groan,  but  instantly — like  a  light  extinguish 
ed  suddenly — the  fire  left  his  eye,  the  color  his  cheek.  His  lips  opened  in 
a  silly  smile.  The  first  word  he  uttered  told  the  story — 

"My  father !"  he  cried,  and  then  pointed  to  the  body,  and  broke  into  a 
laugh. 

Oh,  it  was  horrible,  that  laugh,  so  hollow,  shrill,  and  wild.  The  child 
of  the  Martyr  was  an  idiot. 

Still,  as  the  crowd  gathered  round  him,  as  kind  hands  bore  him  away, 
that  pale  face  was  turned  over  his  shoulder  toward  the  gallows: 

"My  FATHER  !" 

And  still  that  laugh  was  borne  upon  the  breeze,  even  to  the  gibbet's 
timbers,  where — in  hideous  mockery,  a  blackened  but  not  dishonored  thing 
•  -swung  the  body  of  the  MARTYR  HAYNE. 

"This  death  will  strike  terror  into  the  hearts  of  the  Rebels  !" 

Poor  Lord  Rawdon  ! 

Did  that  man,  in  his  fine  uniform,  forget  that  there  was  a  God  ?  Did  he 
forget  that  the  voice  of  a  Martyr's  blood  can  never  die  ? 

This  death  strike  terror  into  the  heart  of  the  Rebels  ? 

It  roused  one  feeling  of  abhorrence  through  the  whole  South.  It  took 
down  a  thousand  rifles  from  the  hooks  above  the  fire-side  hearth.  It  turned 
many  a  doubting  heart  to  the  cause  of  freedom  ;  nay,  Tories  by  hundreds 
came  flocking  to  the  camp  of  liberty.  The  blood  of  Hayne  took  root  and 
grew  into  an  army. 

There  came  a  day  when  George  Washington,  by  the  conquest  of  York- 
town,  had  in  his  possession  the  murderer  who  did  this  deed  ;  Lord  Corn- 
wallis,  who  commended,  nay  commanded  it :  Lord  Rawdon,  who  signed 
the  death-warrant. 

Here  was  a  glorious  chance  for  Washington  to  avenge  the  Martyr  Hayne, 
who  had  been  choked  to  death  by  these  men.  The  feeling  of  the  army, 
ne  voice  of  America — nay,  certain  voices  that  spoke  in  the  British  Parlia 
ment,  would  have  justified  the  deed.  The  law  of  nations  would  have  pro- 
c;aimed  it  a  holy  act.  But  how  did  Washington  act  ? 

He  left  each  murderer  to  God  and  his  own  conscience.     He  showed  the 


276  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

whole  world  a  sublime  manifestation  of  forgiveness  and  scorn.  Forgive- 
ness  for  this  humilitated  Cornwallis,  who,  so  far  from  bearing  Washington 
home  to  London  a  prisoner  in  chains,  was  now  a  conquered  man  in  the 
midst  of  his  captive  army. 

But  this  Lord  Rawdon,  who,  captured  by  a  French  vessel,  was  brought 
into  Yorktown,  this  arrested  murderer,  who  skulled  about  the  camp,  the 
object  of  universal  loathing,  how  did  Washington  treat  him  ? 

He  scorned  him  too  much  to  lay  a  hand  upon  his  head  ;  from  the  fulness 
of  contempt,  he  permitted  him  to  live. 

Poor  Lord  Rawdon  ! 

Who  hears  his  name  now,  save  as  an  object,  forgotten  in  the  universality 
of  scorn  ? 

But  the  Martyr — where  is  the  heart  that  does  not  throb  at  the  mention  of 
his  fate,  at  the  name  of  ISAAC  HAYNE  ? 

XXIII.— ARNOLD    IN    VIRGINIA 

IN  the  history  of  the  present  Mexican  war,  it  is  stated,  that  fifteen  women 
were  driven  by  the  bombardment  of  Vera  Cruz,  to  take  refuge  in  a  church, 
near  the  altar,  their  pale  faces  illumined  by  the  same  red  glare,  that  revealed 
the  sculptured  image  of  Jesus  and  the  sad,  mild  face  of  the  Virgin 
Mother. 

While  they  knelt  there,  a  lighted  bomb — a  globe  of  iron,  containing  at 
least  three  hundred  balls — crashed  through  the  roof  of  the  church,  descended 
in  the  midst  of  the  women,  and  exploded 

There  is  not  a  Fiend,  but  whose  heart  would  fail  him,  when  surveying 
the  result  of  that  explosion. 

So,  upon  the  homes  of  Virginia,  in  December,  1781,  burst  the  Traitor, 
Benedict  Arnold. 

As  his  ship  glided  up  James  River,  aided  by  wind  and  tide — a  leaden 
sky  above,  a  dreary  winter  scene  around,  the  other  vessels  following  in  the 
wake — he  stood  on  its  deck,  and  drew  his  sword,  repeating  his  oath,  to 
avenge  the  death  of  John  Andre  ! 

How  did  he  keep  that  Oath  ? 

He  was  always  excited  to  madness  in  the  hour  of  conflict,  always  fight 
ing  like  a  tigress  robbed  of  her  young,  but  now  he  concealed  the  heart  of  a 
Devil,  beneath  a  British  uniform.  The  homes  that  he  burnt,  the  men  that 
he  stabbed,  the  murders  that  dripped  from  his  sword,  could  not  be  told  in  a 
volume. 

At  midnight,  over  the  ice-bound  river  and  frozen  snow,  a  red  column  of 
flame  flashed  far  and  wide,  rising  in  terrible  grandeur  into  the  star-lit  skv. — 
It  was  only  Arnold  and  his  Men,  laying  an  American  home  in  ashes  and 
olood. 

W\ien  morning  came,  there  was  a  dense  black  smoke  darkening  over 


ARNOLD   IN    VIRGINIA.  27? 

yonder  woods.     The  first  light  of  the  winter's  day  shone  over  the  maddened 
visagt,  of  Arnold,  cheering  on  his  men  to  scenes  of  murder. 

The  very  men  who  fought  under  him,  despised  him.  As  the  officers 
received  his  orders,  they  could  not  disguise  the  contempt  of  the  curved  lip 
and  averted  eye.  The  phantom  of  Andre  never  left  him.  If  before  he  had 
been  desperate,  he  was  now  infernal — if  Quebec  had  beheld  him  a  brave 
soldier,  the  shores  of  James  River,  the  streets  of  Richmond  saw  in  his  form 
the  image  of  an  Assassin. 

Tortured  by  Remorse,  hated,  doubted,  despised  by  the  men  who  had 
purchased  his  sword,  his  honor,  Arnold  seemed  at  this  time,  to  become  the 
Foe  of  the  whole  human  race. 

When  not  engaged  in  works  of  carnage,  he  would  sit  alone  in  his  tent, 
resting  his  head  in  his  clenched  hand  and  shading  from  the  light,  a  face 
distorted  by  demoniac  passions. 

The  memory  of  Andre  was  to  him,  what  the  cord,  sunken  in  the  lacerated 
flesh,  is  to  the  Hindoo  devotee,  a  dull,  gnawing,  ever-present  pain. 

One  day  he  sent  a  flag  of  truce,  with  a  letter  to  La  Fayette.  The  heroic 
Boy-General  returned  the  letter  without  a  word.  Arnold  took  the  unan 
swered  letter,  sought  the  shadow  of  his  tent,  and  did  not  speak  for  some 
hours.  That  calm  derision  cut  him  to  the  soul. 

There  was  brought  before  him,  on  a  calm  winter's  day,  an  American 
Captain  who  had  been  taken  prisoner.  Arnold  surveyed  the  hardy  soldier, 
clad  in  that  glorious  blue  uniform,  which  he  himself  had  worn  with  honor, 
and  after  a  pause  of  silent  thought,  asked  with  a  careless  smile — 

"  What  will  the  Americans  do  with  me,  in  case  they  take  me  prisoner?" 

"  Hang  your  body  on  a  gibbet,  but  bury  your  leg  with  the  honors  of  war. 
Not  the  leg  that  first  planted  a  footstep  on  the  British  ship,  but  the  leg  that 
was  broken  at  Quebec  and  Saratoga  !"' 

Arnold's  countenance  fell.      He  asked  no  more  questions  of  that  soldier. 

One  dark  and  cheerless  winter's  evening,  as  the  sun  shining  from  a  blue 
ridge  of  clouds,  lighted  up  the  recesses  of  a  wood,  near  the  James  River,  a 
solitary  horseman  was  pursuing  his  way  along  a  path  that  led  from  the 
forest  into  a  wild  morass. 

On  either  side  of  the  path  were  dangerous  bogs,  before  the  traveller  a 
dreary  prospect  of  ice  and  reeds,  at  his  back,  the  unknown  wood  which  he 
had  just  left.  He  had  wandered  far  from  the  road,  and  lost  his  way. 

He  covered  his  face  and  neck  with  the  cloak,  which,  drooping  over  his 
erect  form,  fell  in  large  folds  on  the  back  of  his  horse.  The  sky  wa«  dark 
and  lowering,  the  wind  sweeping  over  the  swamp,  bitter  cold.  From  an 
aperture  in  the  clouds,  the  last  gush  of  sunlight  streamed  over  the  ice  of  the 
morass,  with  that  solitary  horsemen  darkly  delineated  in  the  centre. 

Suffering  the  horse  to  choose   his  way,  the   traveller,  with  his   fare  "on 
cealed  in  the  cloak,  seemed  absorbed  in  his  thoughts,  while  the  sun 
down  ;  the  night  came  on  ;  the  snow  fell  in  large  flakes. 


278  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

The  instinct  of  the  horse  guided  liim  through  many  devious  paths,  at 
.ast,  however,  he  halted  in  evident  distress,  while  the  falling  snow  whitened 
his  dark  flanks.  The  traveller  looked  around :  all  had  grown  suddenly 
dark.  He  could  not  distinguish  the  path.  Suddenly,  however,  a  lighl 
blazed  in  his  face,  and  he  beheld  but  a  few  paces  before  him,  the  glow  of  a 
fireside,  streaming  through  an  opened  door.  A  miserable  hut  stood  there, 
on  an  island  of  the  swamp,  with  the  immense  trunks  of  leafless  trees  rising 
above  its  narrow  roof. 

As  the  traveller,  by  that  sudden  light  hurried  forward,  he  beheld  standing 
in  the  doorway,  the  figure  of  an  old  man,  clad  after  the  Indian  style,  in 
hunting  shirt,  leggings  and  moccasins,  with  a  fur  cap  on  his  brow. 

*'  Who  comes  thar  ?"  the  challenge  echoed  and  a  rifle  was  raised. 

•*  A  friend,  who  will  thank  you  to  direct  him  to  the  path  which  leads  into 
the  high  road  !" 

"  On  sich  a  night  as  this,  I'd  reether  not !"  answered  the  old  hunter — 
"  How'sever,  if  you  choose  to  share  my  fire  and  Johnny  cake,  you're  wel 
come  !  That's  all  an  old  soldier  can  say  !" 

— In  a  few  moments,  looking  into  the  solitary  room  of  that  secluded  hut, 
you  might  see  the  traveller  seated  on  one  side  of  a  cheerful  fire,  built  on  the 
hard  clay,  while  opposite,  resting  on  a  log,  the  old  man  turned  the  cake  in 
the  ashes,  and  passed  the  whiskey  flask. 

A  lighted  pine  knot,  attached  to  a  huge  oaken  post  which  formed  the  main 
support  of  the  roof,  threw  its  vivid  glare  into  the  wrinkled  face  of  the  hunter. 
The  traveller,  still  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  seemed  to  avoid  the  light,  for  while 
he  eagerly  partook  of  the  cake  and  shared  the  contents  of  the  flask,  he 
shaded  his  eyes  with  his  broad  chapeau. 

Around  these  two  figures  were  many  testimonials  of  the  old  man's  skill, 
and  some  records  of  his  courage.  The  antlers  of  a  deer  nailed  to  a  post, 
the  skin  of  a  panther  extended  along  the  logs,  five  or  six  scalps  suspended 
from  the  roof,  bore  testimony  to  a  life  of  desperate  deeds.  By  his  side, 
his  powder  horn  and  hunting  pouch,  and  an  old  rifle,  glowed  redly  in  the 
light. 

The  rude  meal  was  finished  ;  the  traveller  raised  his  head  and  glanced 
covertly  around  the  place. 

"  You  seem  comfortable  here  ?  A  somewhat  lonely  spot,  however,  in 
the  middle  of  the  swamp,  with  nothing  but  ice  and  reeds  around  you?" 

The  old  hunter  smiled  until  his  veteran  face  resembled  a  piece  of  intri 
cate  net  work. 

"  If  you'd  a-been  some  five  years  cap-ftue  among  the  Ingins  as  I  have 
been,  you'd  think  this  here  log  hut  reether  comfortable  place  !" 

"  You — a  captive  ?"  muttered  the  traveller. 

•'  Look  thar !"  and  raising  his  cap  he  laid  bare  his  skull,  which  was  at 
once  divested  of  the  hair  and  skin.  The  hideous  traces  of  a  savage  outrage, 
were  clearly  perceptible. 


ARNOLD   IN    VIRGINIA.  270 

'  *•  Thar's  whar  the  Ingins  scalped  me  !  But  old  Bingimin  did  n't  die 
jest  then  !" 

"  Where  were  you,  at  the  time  the  Indians  captured  you  ?" 

"  In  Canada — " 

"  Canada  ?"  echoed  the  traveller. 

•*  Does  that  seem  pecooliar  ?"  chuckled  the  old  man — "  Taken  captive  in 
Canada,  I  was  kept  among  'em  five  years,  and  did  n't  get  near  a  white  set 
tlement,  until  a  month  back.  I  haint  lived  here  more  nor  three  weeks. 
You  see  I've  had  a  dev'lish  tough  time  of  it !" 

"  You  are  not  a  Canadian  ?" 

"  Old  Virginny  to  the  back-bone  !  You  see  I  went  to  jine  the  army  near 
Boston,  with  Dan'el  Morgan — You  mought  a-happened  to  heard  o'  that 
man,  stranger  ?  A  parfict  hoss  to  fight,  mind  I  tell  'ee  !" 

44  Morgan  .'"  whispered  the  traveller,  and  his  head  sunk  lower  in  his  cloak. 

"  Yes,  you  see  Morgan  and  his  men  jined  Arnold — you've  heered  of 
him  ?" 

The  traveller  removed  his  seat,  or  log,  from  the  fire.  It  was  getting  un 
comfortably  warm. 

"  Arnold — yes,  I  think  I  have  heard  of  that  man  ?" 

44  Heer'd  of  him  ?  Why  I  reckon,  if  livin',  by  this  time  he's  the  greatest 
man  a-goin' !  Yes,  stranger,  I  was  with  him,  with  Arnold  on  his  v'yge 
over  land  to  Quebec  !  What  a  parfict  devil  he  was,  be  sure  !" 

"  You  knew  Arnold  ?" 

"  Wer  n't  I  with  him  all  the  way,  for  two  months  ?  Die  n't  I  see  him 
every  hour  of  the  day  I  Nothin'  could  daunt  that  fellow — his  face  was 
always  the  same — and  when  there  was  danger,  you  need  n't  ask  where  he 
was.  Arnold  was  always  in  the  front  !" 

**  He  was  a  rash,  high-tempered  man  ?" 

"  A  beaver  to  work  and  a  wild  cat  to  fight !  Hot-tempered  as  old  Sattin, 
but  mind  I  tell  'ee,  his  heart  was  in  the  right  place.  I  recollect  one  day, 
we  brought  to  a  halt  on  the  banks  of  a  river.  Our  provisions  were  gone. 
There  were  n't  a  morsel  left.  E'en  the  dogs  an'  sarpints  had  run  out.  Our 
men  set  about  in  squads,  talkin'  the  matter  over.  We  were  the  worst 
starved  men,  that  had  ever  been  seen  in  them  parts.  Well,  in  midst  of  it 
all,  Arnold  calls  me  aside — I  see  his  face  yet,  with  an  eye  like  one  of  them 
fire-coals — ses  he,  "  Bingimin,  you're  a  little  older  than  the  rest  of  us! 
Take  this  crust .'"  And  he  gives  me  a  bit  of  bread,  that  he  took  from  the 
breast  of  his  coat.  Yes,  the  Colonel — sufferin'  himself  for  bread — give  me 
the  last  he  had,  out  of  his  own  mouth  !" 

The  old  man  brushed  his  eyes  with  the  back  of  his  hand.  The  traveller 
seemed  asleep,  for  his  head  had  fallen  on  his  breast,  while  his  elbows  rested 
on  his  knees.  The  hunter,  however,  continued  his  story. 

•*  Then  you  should  a-seen  him,  at  the  Stormin'  o'  Quebec  !  Laws  help 
u* !  Why,  even  when  his  leg  was  broke,  he  cheered  his  men,  and  fought. 


280  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

sword  in  hand,  until  he  fell  in  a  puddle  of  his  own  blood  !  I  tell  you,  that 
Arnold  was  a  born  devil  to  fight !" 

"  You  said  you  were  captured  by  the  Indians  ?"  hastily  interrupted  the 
stranger,  keeping  his  face  within  the  folds  of  his  cloak. 

41  I  carried  Arnold  from  the  Rock  at  Quebec,  and  was  with  him  when  the 
Americans  were  retreating  toward  Lake  Champlain.  One  night,  wandering 

on  the  shore,  the  red  skins  come  upon  me but  it's  a  long  story.  You 

seem  to  be  from  civilized  parts,  stranger.  Can  you  tell  me,  what's  become 
of  Benedict  Arnold  ?  Is  he  alive  ?" 

"  He  is,"  sullenly  responded  the  traveller. 

"  At  the  head  of  the  heap,  too,  I'll  be  bound  !  A  Continental  to  the 
backbone  ?  Hey  ?  Next  to  Washington  himself?" 

The  traveller  was  silent. 

"  Maybe,  stranger,  you  can  tell  me  somethin*  about  the  war  ?  You 
seem  to  come  from  the  big  cities?  What's  been  doin'  lately  ?  The  Con 
tinental  Congress  still  in  operation  ?  I  did  heer,  while  captive  among  the 
Ingins,  that  our  folks  had  cut  loose  altogether  from  King  George  ?" 

The  strange  gentlemen  did  not  answer.  His  face  still  shrouded  in  his 
cloak,  he  folded  his  arms  over  his  knees,  while  the  old  man  gazed  upon 
him  with  a  look  of  some  interest. 

"  So  you  knew  Benedict  Arnold  ?"  a  deep,  hoarse  voice  echoed  from  the 
folds  of  the  cloak. 

"  That  I  did  !— And  a  braver  man  never " 

"  He  was  brave  ?     Was  he  ?" 

**  Like  his  iron  sword,  his  character  was  full  of  dents  and  notches,  but 
his  heart  was  always  true,  and  his  hand  struck  home  in  the  hour  of  battle  !" 

"  The  soldiers  liked  him  ?" 

"  Reether  so !  You  should  have  seen  'em  follow  his  voice  and  eye  on 
the  ramparts  of  Quebec  !  They  fairly  warshipped  him — " 

"  Do  you  think  he  loved  his  country  ?" 

"  Do  I  think  !  I  don't  think  about  it — I  know  it ! — But  you  don't  seem 
well — eh  ?  Got  a  chill  ?  You  trimble  so.  Wait  a  moment,  and  I'll  put 
more  wood  on  the  fire." 

The  stranger  rose.  Still  keeping  his  cloak  about  his  neck  and  face,  he 
moved  toward  the  narrow  door. 

"  I  must  go !"  he  said,  in  that  hoarse  voice,  which  for  some  unknown 
reason,  struck  on  the  old  man's  ear  with  a  peculiar  sound. 

"  Go  :  On  sich  a  night  as  this  ?     It  taint  possible  !" 

•'  I  must  go  !  You  can  tell  me,  the  best  path  from  this  accursed  swamp, 
and  I  will  leave  without  a  moment's  delay !" 

The  old  man  was  conscious  that  no  persuasion  on  his  part,  could  change 
the  iron  resolve  of  the  stranger's  tone. 

In  a  moment  standing  in  the  door,  a  lighted  pine  knot  in  his  hand,  ta 
gazed  upon  the  sight  revealed  by  its  glare — That  cloaked  figure  mounted  on 


ARNOLD   IN    VIRGINIA.  281 

ihe  dark  steed,  who  with  mane  and  tail  waving  to  the  gust,  neck  arched 
and  eye  rolling,  stood  ready  for  the  march. 

It  was  a  terrible  night.  The  snow  had  changed  to  sleet,  the  wind  swell 
ing  to  a  hurricane,  roared  like  the  voices  of  ten  thousand  men  clamoring  in 
battle,  over  the  wilds  of  the  swamp.  Although  it  was  in  the  depth  of 
winter,  the  sound  of  distant  thunder  was  heard,  and  a  pale  lurid  lightning 
flashed  from  the  verge  of  that  dreary  horizon. 

The  old  man,  with  the  light  flaring  now  over  his  withered  face,  now  over 
the  stranger  and  his  steed,  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  rude  home. 

"  Take  the  track  to  the  right— turn  the  big  oak  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
from  this  place,  and  then  you  must  follow  the  windin's  of  the  path,  as  best 
you  may  ! — But  hold,  it's  a  terrible  night :  I'll  not  see  a  fellow  bein's  life  in 
peril.  Wait  a  minute,  until  I  get  my  cap  and  rifle  ;  I'll  go  with  you  to  the 
edge  of  the  swamp " 

"  So  you  would  like  to  know — "  interrupted  the  deep  voice  of  the  Stran 
ger — "  So  you  would  like  to  know  what  has  become  of  Benedict  Arnold  ?" 

That  voice  held  the  old  man's  eye  and  ear  like  a  spell.  He  started  for 
ward,  holding  the  torch  in  his  hand,  and  grasped  the  stirrup  of  the  traveller. 

Then  occurred  a  sudden,  yet  vivid  and  impressive  scene  ! 

You  hear  the  winter  thunder  roll,  you  see  the  pale  lightning  glow.  That 
torch  spreads  a  circle  of  glaring  light  around  the  old  man  and  the  horseman, 
while  all  beyond  is  intensely  dark.  You  behold  the  brown  visage  of  the 
aged  soldier,  seamed  with  wrinkles,  battered  with  scars,  its  keen  grey  eyes 
upraised,  the  white  hairs  streaming  in  the  wind. 

And  then,  like  some  wild  creation  of  that  desert  waste,  you  see  the  im 
patient  horse,  and  the  cloaked  figure,  breaking  into  the  vivid  light,  and  dis 
tinctly  relieved  by  the  universa  of  darkness  beyond. 

The  old  man  gazed  intently  for  a  moment,  and  then  fell  back  against  the 
door-post  of  his  hut,  appalled,  frightened,  thundurstricken.  The  mingled 
despair,  wonder,  fear,  stamped  upon  his  battle-worn  face,  was  frightful  to 
behold. 

— The  cloak  had  fallen  from  the  Stranger's  shoulders.  The  old  man  be 
held  a  massive  form  clad  in  scarlet,  a  bronzed  visage  disturbed  by  a  hideous 
emotion,  two  dark  eyes  that  flashed  through  the  gloom,  as  with  the  light  of 
eternal  despair. 

«'  ffoWj  do  you  know  me  P"  thundered  that  hoarse  voice,  and  a  mist  came 
over  the  old  man's  eyes. 

When  he  recovered  his  consciousness  again,  the  tufted  sward  before  his 
hut  was  vacant.  There  was  the  sound  of  horse's  hoofs,  crashing  through 
the  swamp,  there  was  the  vision  of  a  horse  and  rider,  seen  far  over  the 
waste,  by  the  glare  of  the  winter  lightning. 

The  space  before  the  hut  was  vacant,  yet  still  that  old  man  with  his  par 
aiyzed  hand  clenching  the  torch,  beheld  a  hideous  vision  rising  against  the 
dark  sky — a  red  uniform,  a  bronzed  visage,  two  burning  eyes . 
18 


262  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

"  To-night,"  lie  faltered — this  brave  old  man,  now  transformed  into  J 
very  coward,  by  that  sight — "  To-night,  I  have  seen  the  FIEND  OF  DARK 
NESS— for  it  was  not — no  !  It  was  not  BENEDICT  ARNOLD  !" 

And  the  old  man  until  the  hour  of  his  death,  firmly  believed  that  me 
vision  of  that  night,  was  a  horrible  delusion,  created  by  the  fiend  of  dark 
ness,  to  frighten  a  brave  old  soldier.  He  died,  believing  still  in  the  PATRIOT 
ARNOLD. 

Arnold  was  afterwards  heard  to  say,  that  all  the  shames  and  scorns, 
which  had  been  showered  upon  his  head,  never  cut  him  so  thoroughly  to 
the  soul,  as  the  fervent  admiration  of  that  Soldier  of  the  Wilderness,  who 
in  his  lonely  wanderings  still  cherished  in  his  heart,  the  memory  of  the 
PATRIOT  ARNOLD. 

XXIV.— THE   THREE    WORDS— 
WHICH   FOLLOWED   BENEDICT   ARNOLD   TO   HIS   GRAVE. 

WHEN  we  look  for  the  Traitor  again,  we  find  him  standing  in  the  steeple 
of  the  New  London  church,  gazing  with  a  calm  joy  upon  the  waves  of  fire 
that  roll  around  him,  while  the  streets  beneath,  flow  with  the  blood  of  men 
and  women  and  children. 

It  was  in  September  1781,  that  Arnold  descended  like  a  Destroying  An- 
gei  upon  the  homes  of  Connecticut.  Tortured  by  a  Remorse,  that  never 
for  a  moment  took  its  vulture  beak  from  his  heart,  fired  by  a  hope  to  please 
the  King  who  had  bought  him,  he  went  with  men  and  horses,  swords  and 
torches,  to  desolate  the  scenes  of  his  childhood. 

Do  you  see  this  beautiful  river,  flowing  so  calmly  on  beneath  the  light  of 
the  stars  ?  Flowing  so  silently  on,  with  the  valleys,  the  hills,  the  orchards 
and  the  plains  of  Connecticut  on  either  shore. 

On  one  side  you  behold  the  slumbering  town,  with  the  outlines  of  Fort 
Trumbull  rising  above  its  roofs  ;  on  the  other,  a  dark  and  massive  pile, 
pitched  on  the  summit  of  rising  hills,  Fort  Griswold. 

All  is  very  still  and  dark,  but  suddenly  two  columns  of  light  break  into 
the  star-lit  sky.  One  here  from  Fort  Trumbull,  another  over  the  opposite 
shore,  from  Fort  Griswold.  This  column  marks  the  career  of  Arnold  and 
his  men,  that  the  progress  of  his  Brother  in  Murder. 

While  New  London  baptized  in  blood  and  flames,  rings  with  death- 
groans,  there  are  heard  the  answering  shout  of  Murder,  from  the  heights  of 
the  Fort  on  the  opposite  shore. 

While  Benedict  Arnold    stands  in  the  steeple,  surveying  the  work  of 
assassins,  yonder  in  Fort  Griswold  a  brave  young  man,  who  finds  all  de- 
>rence  in  vain,  rushes  toward  the  British  officer  and  surrenders  his  sword. 
By  the  light  of  the  musquet  flash  we  behold  the  scene. 
Heie  the  young  American,   his   uniform   torn,  his  manly  countenance 


THE   THREE  WORDS.  283 

marked  with  the  traces  of  the  fight.  There  the  British  leader,  clad  in  his 
red  uniform,  with  a  scowl  darkening  his  red  round  face. 

The  American  presents  his  sword  ;  you  see  the  Briton  grasp  it  by  the 
hilt,  and  with  an  oath  drive  it  through  that  American's  heart,  transfixing 
him  with  his  own  blade  ! 

British  magnanimity  !  Now  it  chains  Napoleon  to  the  Rock  of  St. 
Helena,  poisoning  the  life  out  of  him  with  the  persecutions  of  a  Knighted 
fookey,  now  it  hangs  the  Irish  Hero  Emmet,  because  he  dared  to  strike 
one  blow  for  his  native  soil,  now  it  coops  a  few  hundred  Scottish  men  and 
women  in  the  ravine  of  Glencoe,  and  shoots  and  burns  them  to  death  ! 

British  mercy  !  Witness  it,  massacre  ground  of  Paoli  witness  it,  gibbet 
of  the  martyred  Hayne,  hung  in  Charleston  in  presence  of  his  son,  witness 
it,  corse  of  Leydard  stabbed  in  Fort  Griswold  with  your  own  surrendered 
sword ! 

Do  not  mistake  me,  do  not  charge  me  with  indulging  a  narrow  and  con 
tracted  national  hatred.  To  me,  there  are  even  two  Nations  of  England, 
two  kinds  of  Englishmen.  The  England  of  Byron  and  Shakspeare  and 
Bulwer,  I  love  from  my  heart.  The  Nation  of  Milton,  of  Hampden,  of 
Sidney,  I  hold  to  form  but  a  portion  of  that  great  commonwealth  of  free 
dom,  in  which  Jefferson,  Henry,  and  Washington  were  brothers. 

But  there  is  an  England  that  I  abhor  !  There  is  an  Englishman  that  I 
despise  !  It  is  that  England  which  finds  its  impersonation  in  the  bloody 
imbecile  George  the  Third,  as  weak  as  he  was  wicked,  as  blind  as  he  was 
cruel,  a  drivelling  idiot,  doomed  in  his  reign  of  sixty  years,  to  set  brother 
against  brother,  to  flood  the  American  Continent  with  blood,  to  convulse  a 
world  with  his  plunders,  and  feel  at  last  the  Judgment  of  God  in  his  blighted 
reason,  his  demoralized  family,  his  impoverished  nation. 

Behold  him  take  the  crown,  a  young  and  not  unhandsome  man  with  the 
fairest  hopes  blossoming  round  him  !  Behold  him  during  the  idiocy  of 
forty  years,  wandering  along  that  solitary  corridor  of  his  palace,  day  after 
day,  his  lip  fallen,  his  eye  vacant,  his  beard  moistened  by  his  tears,  while 
grasping  motes  with  his  hands  he  totters  before  us,  a  living  witness  of  the 
Divine  Right  of  Kings. 

And  yet  they  talk  of  his  private  virtues  !  He  was  such  a  good,  amiable 
man,  and  gave  so  many  half-pence  to  the  poor  ;  he  even  took  a  few  shillings 
from  the  millions  wrung  from  the  nation,  to  pamper  his  royal  babes,  and 
bestowed  them  in  charity,  mark  you,  upon  the — People  whom  he  had 
robbed  ! 

I  willingly  admit  his  private  virtues.  But  when  the  King  goes  up  to 
Judgment,  to  answer  for  his  Crimes,  will  you  tell  me  what  becomes  of 
the — Man  ? 

There  is  a  kind  of  Englishman  that  I  despise,  or  if  you  can  coin  a  word 
to  express  the  fullness  of  honest  contempt,  speak  it,  and  I  will  echo  you  ! 

Behold  the  embodiment  of  this  Englishman  in  the  person  of  Ge  prge  th« 


284  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

Fourth,  who  after  a  life  rich  only  in  the  fruits  of  infamy,  after  long  years  of 
>  elaborate  pollution,  after  making  his  court  a  brothel  the  very  air  in  which 
he  walked  a  breathing  pestilence,  went  groaning  one  fine  morning  from  his 
perfumed  chamber,  to  an  unwept,  a  detested  grave  ! 

On  that  grave,  not  one  flower  of  virtue  bloomed  ;  on  that  dishonored 
corse,  lying  in  state,  not  one  tear  of  pity  fell.  The  meanest  felon,  may 
receive  on  his  cold  face  one  farewell  tear — all  the  infamous  tyrannies,  enacted 
beside  the  death-bed  of  Napoleon,  could  not  prevent  the  tears  of  brave  men 
and  heroic  women,  falling  like  rain,  upon  his  noble  brow.  But  will  you 
tell  me,  the  name  of  the  human  thing,  that  shed  one  tear — only  one — over 
George  the  Fourth  ? 

It  is  thoughts  like  these,  that  stir  my  blood,  when  I  am  forced,  to  record 
the  dastardly  deeds,  performed  by  British  herelings  in  our  Revolution. 

That  single  corse  of  the  heroic  Leydard,  stabbed  with  his  own  sword, 
should  speak  to  us  with  a  vice,  as  eternal  as  the  Justice  of  Heaven  ! 

While  he  laid,  cold  and  stiff,  on  the  floor  of  the  conquered  fort,  the  flames 
from  the  burning  town  spread  to  the  vessels  in  the  river  and  to  the  light  of  blaz 
ing  roofs  and  sails,  Benedict  Arnold  looked  his  last  upon  his  childhood's  home. 


Soon  afterward  he  sailed  from  our  shores,  and  came  back  no  mor*,.  From 
this  time,  forth  wherever  he  went,  three  whispered  words  followed  him, 
singing  through  his  ears  into  his  heart — ARNOLD  THE  TRAITOR. 

When  he  stood  beside  his  king  in  the  House  of  Lords — the  weak  old 
man,  whispered  in  familiar  tones  to  his  gorgeously  attired  General — a 
whisper  crept  through  the  thronged  Senate,  faces  were  turned,  fingers  ex 
tended,  and  as  the  whisper  deepened  into  a  murmur,  one  venerable  Lord 
arose  and  stated  that  he  loved  his  Sovereign,  but  could  not  speak  to  him, 
while  by  his  side  there  stood — ARNOLD  THE  TRAITOR. 

He  went  to  the  theatre,  parading  his  warrior  form,  amid  the  fairest  flowers 
of  British  nobility  and  beauty,  but  no  sooner  was  his  visage  seen,  than  the 
whole  audience  rose — the  Lord  in  his  cushioned  seat,  the  vagrant  of  Lon 
don  in  the  gallery — they  rose  together,  while  from  the  pit  to  the  dome 
echoed  the  cry — "ARNOLD  THE  TRAITOR  ?" 

When  he  issued  from  his  gorgeous  mansion,  the  liveried  servant,  that  ate 
his  bread,  and  earned  it  too,  by  menial  offices,  whispered  in  contempt,  to 
his  fellow  lacquey  as  he  took  his  position  behind  his  Master's  carriage — 
BENEDICT  ARNOLD  THE  TRAITOR. 

One  day,  in  a  shadowy  room,  a  mother  and  two  daughters,  all  attired  in 
the  weeds  of  mourning,  were  grouped  in  a  sad  circle,  gazing  upon  a  picture 
shrowded  in  crape.  A  visitor  now  advanced  ;  the  mother  took  his  card 
from  the  hands  of  the  servant,  and  the  daughters  heard  his  name.  "Go  ?" 
•aid  that  mother,  rising  with  a  flushed  face,  while  a  daughter  took  each  hand 
— "Go  !  and  tell  the  man,  that  my  threshhold  can  never  be  crossed  by  thfl 
murderer  of  my  son — by  ARNOLD  THF.  TRAITOR  " 


THE    THREE    WORDS.  285 

Grossly  insulted  in  a  public  place,  he  appealed  to  the  company — noble 
.ords  and  reverend  men  were  there — and  breasting  his  antagonist  with  his 
fierce  brow,  he  spat  full  in  his  face.  His  antagonist  was  a  man  of  tried 
courage.  He  coolly  wiped  the  saliva  from  his  cheek.  "Time  may  spit 
upon  me,  but  I  never  can  pollute  my  sword  by  killing — ARNOLD  THE  TRAI 
TOR  !" 

He  left  London.  He  engaged  in  commerce.  His  ships  were  on  the 
ocean,  his  warehouses  in  Nova  Scotia,  his  plantations  in  the  West  Indies. 
One  night  his  warehouse  was  burned  to  ashes.  The  entire  population  of 
St.  John's — accusing  the  owner  of  acting  the  part  of  incendiary,  to  his  own 
property,  in  order  to  defraud  the  insurance  companies-assembled  in  that 
British  town,  in  sight  of  his  very  widow,  they  hung  an  effigy,  inscribed 
with  these  words — "ARNOLD  THE  TRAITOR." 

When  the  Island  of  Guadalope  was  re-taken  by  the  French,  he  was 
among  the  prisoners.  He  was  put  aboard  a  French  prison-ship  in  the  har 
bor.  His  money — thousands  of  yellow  guineas,  accumulated  through  the 
course  of  years — was  about  his  person.  Afraid  of  his  own  name,  he  called 
himself  John  Anderson  ;  the  name  once  assumed  by  John  Andre.  He 
deemed  himself  unknown,  but  the  sentinel  approaching  him,  whispered  that 
he  was  known  and  in  great  danger.  He  assisted  him  to  escape,  even  aided 
him  to  secure  his  treasure  in  an  empty  cask,  but  as  the  prisoner,  gliding 
down  the  side  of  the  ship,  pushed  his  raft  toward  the  shore,  that  sentinel 
looked  after  him,  and  in  broken  English  sneered — "ARNOLD  THE  TRAITOR  !'* 

There  was  a  day,  when  Tallyrand  arrived  in  Havre,  hot-foot  from  Paris. 
It  was  in  the  darkest  hour  of  the  French  Revolution.  Pursued  by  the 
blood-hounds  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  stripped  of  every  wreck  of  poverty 
or  power,  Tallyrand  secured  a  passage  to  America,  in  a  ship  about  to  sail. 
He  was  going  a  beggar  and  a  wanderer  to  a  strange  land,  to  earn  his  bread 
by  daily  labor. 

"Is  there  any  American  gentleman  staying  at  your  house  ?"  he  asked  the 
Landlord  of  his  Hotel — "I  am  about  to  cross  the  water,  and  would  like  a 
letter  to  some  person  of  influence  in  the  New  World — " 

The  Landlord  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  replied  : 

"There  is  a  gentleman  up  stairs,  either  from  America  or  Britain,  but 
whether  American  or  Englishman,  I  cannot  tell." 

He  pointed  the  way,  and  Tallyrand — who  in  his  life,  was  Bishop,  Prince, 
Prime  Minister — ascended  the  stairs.  A  venerable  supplicant,  he  stood 
before  the  stranger's  door,  knocked  and  entered. 

In  the  far  corner  of  a  dimly  lighted  room,  sat  a  gentleman  of  some  fifty 
years,  his  arms  folded  and  his  head  bowed  on  his  breast.  From  a  window 
directly  opposite,  a  flood  of  light  poured  over  his  forehead.  His  eyes, 
looking  from  beneath  the  downcast  brows,  gazed  in  Tallyrand's  face,  with 
a  peculiar  and  searching  expression.  His  face  was  striking  in  its  outline  ; 
the  mouth  and  chin  indicative  of  an  iron  will. 


286  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

His  form,  vigorous  even  with  the  snows  of  fifty  winters,  was  clad  in  a 
dark  but  rich  and  distinguished  costume. 

Tallyrand  advanced — stated  that  he  was  a  fugitive — and  under  the  im 
pression,  that  the  gentleman  before  him  was  an  American,  he  solicited  his 
kind  offices. 

He  poured  forth  his  story  in  eloquent  French  and  broken  English. 

"  I  am  a  wanderer — an  exile.  I  am  forced  to  fly  to  the  New  World, 
without  a  friend  or  a  hope.  You  are  an  American  ?  Give  me,  then,  I  be 
seech  you,  a  letter  of  introduction  to  some  friend  of  yours,  so  that  I  may  be 
enabled  to  earn  my  bread.  I  am  willing  to  toil  in  any  manner — the  scenes 
of  Paris  have  filled  me  with  such  horror,  that  a  life  of  labor  would  be  Para 
dise,  to  a  career  of  luxury  in  France — you  will  give  me  a  letter  to  one  of 
your  friends  ?  A  gentleman  like  you,  has  doubtless,  many  friends — " 

The  strange  gentleman  rose.  With  a  look  that  Tallyrand  never  forgot, 
he  retreated  toward  the  door  of  the  next  chamber,  still  downcast,  his  eye« 
still  looking  from  beneath  his  darkened  brows. 

He  spoke  as  he  retreated  backward  :  his  voice  was  full  of  meaning. 

"  /am  the  only  man,  born  in  the  New  World,  that  can  raise  his  hand 
to  God,  and  say — I  HAVE  NOT  ONE  FRIEND — NOT  ONE — IN  ALL  AMERICA." 

Tallyrand  never  forgot  the  overwhelming  sadness  of  that  look,  which 
accompanied  these  words. 

"  Who  are  you  ?"  he  cried,  as  the  strange  man  retreated  toward  the  nex* 
room — "  Your  name  ?' 

"  My  name — "  with  a  smile  that  had  more  of  mockery  than  joy  in  iti 
convulsive  expression — "  My  name  is  Benedict  Arnold" 

He  was  gone.  Tallyrand  sank  into  a  chair,  gasping  the  words — "  ARNOLI 
THE  TRAITOR." 

— Thus  you  see,  he  wandered  over  the  earth,  another  Cain,  with  th 
murderer's  mark  upon  his  brow.     Even  in  the  secluded  room  of  that  Inn 
at  Havre,  his  crime  found  him  out  and  faced  him,  to  tell  his  name,  tha« 
name  the  synonomy  of  infamy. 

The  last  twenty  years  of  his  life,  are  covered  with  a  cloud,  from  whose 
darkness,  but  a  few  gleams  of  light  flash  out  upon  the  page  of  history. 

The  manner  of  his  death  is  not  distinctly  known.  But  we  cannot  doubt 
that  he  died  utterly  friendless,  that  his  cold  brow  was  unmoistened  by  one 
farewell  tear,  that  Remorse  pursued  him  to  the  grave,  whispering  John 
Andre  !  in  his  ears,  and  that  the  memory  of  his  course  of  glory,  gnawed 
like  a  canker  at  his  heart,  murmuring  forever,  *  true  to  your  country,  what 
might  you  have  been,  O,  ARNOLD  THE  TRAITOR  !' 

In  the  closing  scene  of  this  wild  drama.  I  have  dared  to  paint  the  agony 
of  his  death-hour,  with  a  trembling  hand  and  hushed  breath,  I  have  lifted 
the  curtain  from  the  death-bed  of  Benedict  Arnold. 


ARNOLD:    HIS    GLORY,   HIS   WRONGS,   HIS    CRIMES.         287 


XXV.— ARNOLD:  HIS   GLORY,    HIS    WRONGS,    HIS    CRIMES. 

DID  you  ever,  reader,  journey  among  dark  mountains,  on  a  stormy  night, 
*rith  hideous  gulfs  yawning  beneath  your  feet,  the  lightning  enveloping  your 
form,  with  its  vivid  light — more  terrible  from  the  blackness  that  followed — 
the  thunder  howling  in  your  ears,  while  afraid  to  proceed  or  go  back,  you 
stood  appalled,  on  the  verge  of  a  tremendous  chasm,  which  extended  deep 
and  black  for  half  a  mile  below  ? 

Did  you  ever  after  a  journey  like  this,  ascend  the  last  mountain  top  in 
your  path,  behold  the  clouds  roll  from  the  scene  of  last  night's  danger,  and 
the  eastern  sky,  glowing  with  the  kiss  of  a  new-born  day  ?  Then  you 
surveyed  the  past  terror  with  a  smile,  and  counter  the  chasms,  and  measured 
the  dark  ways  with  a  look  of  calm  observation. 

So,  after  our  dark  and  fearful  journey  over  Arnold's  life,  do  we  reach 
the  last  mountain  top,  and  the  day  breaks  over  us.  Not  upon  him,  dawns 
the  blessed  light — ah,  no  !  But  upon  us  it  glows,  and  we  will  now  look 
back  upon  the  long  track  of  his  deeds,  the  waste  of  his  despair,  spread  far 
behind  us. 

Yes,  our  journey  is  near  its  end.  The  pleasant  valleys  of  the  Brandy- 
wine  will  soon  invite  us  to  their  shadows,  soon  we  will  repose  beside  their 
clear  waters,  and  drink  the  perfume  of  their  flowers,  while  we  listen  to  the 
Legends  of  Battle,  and  Love,  and  Supernatural  beauty,  that  rise  like  spirits 
from  those  mound-like  hills.  Yet  ere  we  pass  to  those  shades  of  Romance 
and  Dreams,  let  us,  at  one  bold  sweep,  survey  the  life  of  Arnold,  his  Glory, 
his  Wrongs,  his  Crimes. 

He  was  born  at  Norwich,  Connecticut,  on  the  3d  of  January,  1740. 

At  the  age  of  sixteen,  he  ran  away  and  joined  the  British  army,  was 
stationed  at  Ticonderoga,  but  unable  to  endure  either  the  restraint  of  disci 
pline,  or  the  insults  of  power,  he  deserted  and  returned  home. 

He  was  now  the  only  son  of  a  devoted  Mother.  Left  by  a  drunken  father, 
to  the  tender  mercies  of  a  World,  which  is  never  too  gentle  to  the  widow 
or  the  orphan,  his  character  was  formed  in  neglect  and  hardship.  He  was 
apprenticed  to  a  druggist,  and  after  his  apprenticeship  removed  to  New 
Haven. 

He  next  became  a  merchant,  shipping  horses  and  cattle  and  provisions 
to  the  West  Tndies,  and  commanding  his  own  vessel.  In  the  West  Indies, 
his  ardent  temper  involved  him  in  a  duel.  His  strong  original  genius,  soon 
led  him  in  the  way  to  wealth  ;  his  precipitate  enterprize  into  bankruptcy. 

He  married  at  New  Haven,  a  lady  named  Mansfield,  who  bore  him  three 
sons,  Benedict,  Richard,  and  Henry.  The  first  inherited  the  father's  tem 
per,  and  met  an  untimely  end.  The  others  settled  in  Canada  after  the  war  • 
the  wife  died  at  the  dawn  of  the  Revolution. 


288  BENEDICT    ARNOLD. 

One  sister  a  noble-hearted  woman,  Hannah  Arnold,  clung  to  him  in  all 
the  changes  of  \u*  life,  and  never  for  an  hour  swerved  from  the  holy  tender* 
ness  of  a  sister's  faith. 

In  May,  1775,  he  shared  with  Ethan  Allen,  the  glory  of  Ticonderoga. 

In  September,  1775,  with  such  men  as  Daniel  Morgan,  the  great  Rifle 
man,  and  Christopher  Greene,  afterward  the  hero  of  Red  Bank,  under  his 
command,  together  with  eleven  hundred  men,  he  commenced  his  expedition 
through  the  Wilderness,  to  Quebec.  After  two  months  of  suffering  and 
hardship,  without  a  parallel  in  our  history,  he  arrived  at  Point  Levy,  oppo 
site  Quebec,  having  accomplished  a  deed  that  conferred  immortal  honor  to 
his  name. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  year,  1775,  he  led  the  attack  on  Quebec.  Con 
gress  awarded  him  for  his  gallant  expedition  and  brilliant  attack,  with  the 
commission  of  brigadier  general. 

After  the  campaign  of  Canada  was  over,  Arnold  was  accused  of  miscon 
duct  in  seizing  certain  goods  at  Montreal.  The  testimony  of  the  first  his 
torian  in  our  country,  proves,  that  in  the  removal  of  these  goods,  he  was 
neither  practising  any  secret  manoeuvre,  nor  did  he  endeavor  to  retain  them 
in  his  possession.  It  is  well  to  bear  these  truths  in  mind  :  the  charge  of 
misconduct  at  Montreal,  has  been  suffered  almost  to  grow  into  history. 

He  was  next  appointed  to  the  command  of  a  fleet  on  Lake  Champlain. 
The  nation  rung  with  the  fame  of  his  deeds.  On  the  water,  as  on  the  land, 
his  indomitable  genius  bore  down  all  opposition. 

A  week  before  the  battle  of  Trenton,  he  joined  Washington's  Camp,  on 
the  west  side  of  the  Delaware,  remained  with  the  Chieftain  three  days,  and 
then  hastened  to  Providence,  in  order  to  meet  the  invaders  on  the  New 
England  coast. 

In  February,  1777,  the  first  glaring  wrong  was  visited  upon  his  head. 
Congress  appointed  five  new  major  generals,  without  including  him  in  the 
list:  all  were  his  juniors  in  rank,  and  one  was  from  the  militia.  Washing 
ton  was  astonished  and  surprised  at  this  measure  ;  he  wrote  a  letter  to 
Arnold,  stating  "  that  the  promotion  which  was  due  to  your  seniority,  was 
tU't  overlooked  for  want  of  merit  in  you." 

While  on  a  journey  from  Providence  to  Philadelphia,  where  he  intended 
to  demand  an  investigation  of  his  conduct,  he  accomplished  the  brilliant 
affair  of  Danbury. 

Congress  heard  of  this  exploit,  and  without  delay,  Arnold  was  promoted 
to  the  rank  of  Major  General.  With  an  inconsistency  not  easily  explained, 
the  date  of  his  commission  was  still  left  below  the  other  five  major 
generals. 

We  next  behold  him  in  Philadelphia,  boldly  demanding  an  investigation 
of  his  character,  at  the  hands  of  Congress.  The  Board  of  War,  to  whom 
all  charges  were  referred,  after  examining  all  the  papers,  and  conversing 
with  the  illustrious  Carrol,  (Commissioner  at  Montreal)  declared  that  the 


ARNOLD:    HIS    GLORY,  HIS    WRONGS.  HIS    CRIMES.        289 

character  and  conduct  of  General  Arnold  had  been  groundlessly  and  cruelly 
as-persed. 

Congress  confirmed  that  report,  complimented  Arnold  with  the  gift  of  pn 
elegantly  caparisoned  horse,  yet  still  neglected  to  restore  him  to  his  hard 
won  rank.  This  was  the  best  way  that  could  have  been  adopted  to  worry 
a  brave  man  into  madness. 

While  his  accounts  lingered  in  the  hands  of  Congress,  Arnold  was  ap 
pointed  to  command  the  army  then  convening  in  the  vicinity  of  Philadel 
phia.  This  duty  he  discharged  with  his  usual  vigor. 

At  last,  chafed  by  the  refusal  of  Congress  to  settle  his  accounts,  and 
adjust  his  rank,  he  resigned  his  commission  in  these  words  : 

••  /  tun  ready  to  risk  my  life  for  my  Country,  but  honor  is  a  sacrifice 
that  no  man  ought  to  make — " 

At  this  crisis  came  the  news  of  the  fall  of  Ticonderoga,  and  the  approach 
of  a  formidable  Army  under  Burgoyne.  On  the  same  day  that  Congress 
received  the  resignation,  they  also  received  a  letter  from  Washington,  re 
commending  that  Arnold  should  be  immediately  sent  to  join  the  northern 
army. 

"  He  is  active,  judicious,  and  brave,  and  an  officer  in  whom  the  militia 
ii'i/t  repose  great  confidence." 

This  was  the  language  of  Washington. 

meld  did  not  hesitate  a  moment.  He  took  up  his  sword  once  more, 
only  hoping  that  his  claims  would  be  heard,  after  he  had  fought  the  battles 
of  his  cou  ;tr\  . 

He  even  consented  to  be  commanded  in  the  northern  army,  by  General 
St.  Clair,  who  had  been  promoted  over  his  head.  With  all  his  rashness, 
all  his  sense  of  bitter  wrong  and  causeless  neglect,  on  this  occasion,  he  acted 
with  heroic  magnanimity. 

In  the  two  Battles  of  Saratoga,  the  one  fought  on  September  the  19th, 
and  the  action  of  Oct.  7th,  Arnold  was  at  once  the  General  and  the  Hero. 
From  12  o'clock,  until  night  on  the  19th,  the  battle  was  fought  entirely  by 
Arnold's  division,  with  the  exception  of  a  single  regiment  from  another  bri 
gade.  There  was  no  general  officer  on  the  field  during  the  day.  Near 
night,  Col.  Lewis,  arriving  from  the  scene  of  action,  stated  that  its  progress 
was  undecisive.  "  I  will  soon  put  an  end  to  it,"  exclaimed  Arnold,  and  set 
off  in  full  gallop  for  the  field. 

Gates  was  so  far  forgetful  of  justice,  as  to  avoid  mentioning  the  name  of 
Arnold  or  his  division  in  his  despatches.  A  quarrel  ensued,  and  Arnold 
resigned  his  command. 

On  the  7th  of  Oct.,  without  a  command,  he  rushed  to  the  field  and  led 
the  Americans  to  victory.  "It  is  a  singular  fact,"  says  Sparks,  "  that  an 
officer,  who  really  had  no  command  in  the  army,  was  leader  in  one  of  the 
most  important  and  spirited  battles  of  the  Revolution." 

At  last  Congress  give  him  the  full  rank  which  he  claimed. 


2*0  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

If  ever  a  man  won  his  way  to  rank,  by  heaping  victory  on  victory,  that 
man  was  Benedict  Arnold. 

In  May,  1778,  Arnold  joined  the  army  at  Valley  Forge. 

But  a  short  time  elapsed  ere  he  established  his  headquarters  in  Phila 
delphia,  as  Military  Governor  or  Commander. 

Here,  he  prohibited  the  sale  of  all  goods  in  the  city,  until  a  joint  Com- 
mittee  of  Congress  and  the  Provincial  Council  should  ascertain,  whether 
any  of  the  property  belonged  to  King  George  or  his  subjects.  This  mea 
sure,  of  course  sanctioned  by  Washington  and  Congress,  surrounded  him 
with  enemies,  who  were  increased  in  number  and  malignancy,  by  his  im 
petuous  temper,  his  luxurious  style  of  living,  and  his  manifest  consciousness 
of  fame  and  power. 

He  had  not  been  a  month  at  Philadelphia,  ere  he  solicited  a  command  in 
the  navy. 

It  was  at  this  time,  that  he  sent  five  hundred  dollars,  out  of  his  contracted 
means,  to  the  orphan  children  of  Warren,  and  pressed  their  claims  upon 
the  notice  of  Congress. — Six  weeks  before  the  consummation  of  his  treachery, 
he  sent  a  letter  to  Miss  Scollay,  who  protected  the  hero's  children,  an 
nouncing  that  he  had  procured  from  Congress,  the  sum  of  thirteen  hundred 
dollars,  for  their  support  and  education. — 

Soon  after  he  assumed  command  in  Philadelphia,  he  married  Miss  Ship- 
pen,  a  beautiful  girl  of  eighteen,  daughter  of  a  gentleman,  favorable  to  the 
King,  and  an  intimate  acquaintance  of  John  Andre.  This  marriage  encircled 
Arnold  with  a  throng  of  Tory  associates.  So  familiar  was  the  intimacy  of 
his  wife  with  John  Andre,  that  she  corresponded  with  him,  after  the  British 
left  the  city  and  returned  to  New  York. 

His  enemies  now  began  their  work.  A  list  of  charges  against  him,  with 
letters  and  papers  was  presented  to  Congress,  by  General  Joseph  Reed, 
President  of  Pennsylvania,  and  referred  to  a  committee  of  inquiry. 

That  Committee  vindicated  Arnold  from  any  criminality  in  the  matters 
charged  against  him. 

Congress  did  not  act  upon  their  report,  but  referred  the  matter  to  a  joint 
Committee  of  their  body  and  of  the  Assembly  and  Council  of  Pennsylvania. 

At  last,  Washington  ordered  a  Court  Martial,  and  gave  notice  to  the 
respective  parties. 

The  accusers  were  not  ready  at  the  appointed  time.  The  trial  was  pul 
off  "  to  allow  them  to  collect  evidence." 

Three  months  had  now  elapsed  since  the  charges  were  first  presented  to 
Congress. 

On  the  18th  of  March,  1779,  Arnold  resigned  his  commission. 

The  day  finally  agreed  upon,  was  the  1st  of  June,  1779,  the  place, 
Midcllebrook. 

At  this  time  the  enemy  in  New  York  made  threatening  demonstrations 
and  the  Court  Martial  was  again  postponed. 


ARNOLD:    HIS   GLORY.   HIS   WRONGS,   HIS    CRIMES.         291 

Arnold  then  formed  the  project  of  forming  a  settlement  for  the  soldier* 
and  officers  who  had  served  under  him.  He  wished  to  obtain  the  grant  of 
a  tract  of  land  in  Western  New  York.  The  members  of  Congress  from 
that  state  seconded  his  wishes,  and  wrote  a  joint  letter  to  Governor  Clinton, 
soliciting  his  aid  : 

— "  To  you  Sir,  or  to  our  state,  General  Arnold  can  require  no  recommen 
dation  :  a  series  of  distinguished  services,  entitle  him  to  respect  and 
favor » 

The  President  of  Congress,  the  virtuous  Jay,  enforced  the  same  applica 
tion  in  a  private  letter  to  Governor  Clinton.     He  said — 
— "  Generosity  to  Arnold  will  be  Justice  to  the  State." — 

These  testimonies  speak  for  themselves.  Was  Arnold  without  noble  and 
rirtuous  friends  ? 

Still  with  the  odium  of  an  "unconvicted  criminal"  upon  his  head,  he  was 
attacked  by  a  Mob,  his  person  assaulted  and  his  house  surrounded.  In 
tones  of  bitter  indignation  he  demanded  a  guard  from  Congress,  and  was 
refused. 

Time  wore  on,  and  the  trial  came  at  last.  It  commenced  at  Morristown, 
on  the  20th  of  December,  and  continued  until  the  26th  of  January  1780. 

He  was  thoroughly  acquitted  on  the  first  two  charges  ;  the  other  two 
were  sustained  in  part,  but  not  so  far  as  to  imply  a  criminal  intention. 
He  gave  a  written  protection,  (while  at  Valley  Forge,)  for  a  vessel  to  pro 
ceed  to  sea.  He  used  the  baggage  wagons  of  Pennsylvania.  These  were 
his  offences  ;  for  these  he  was  sentenced  to  be  reprimanded  by  Washington. 

At  least  thirteen  months  had  passed,  from  the  lime  of  the  first  accusation 
until  he  was  brought  to  trial.  In  the  course  of  this  time,  he  made  his  first 
approaches  of  Treason. 

Plunged  into  debt,  he  wished  to  enter  the  service  of  the  French  King, 
to  join  an  Indian  tribe,  to  betray  his  country  to  the  British.  The 
French  Minister  met  his  offer  with  a  pointed  refusal,  his  mysterious  propo 
sition  to  become  the  Chief  of  the  red  men,  was  never  carried  into  effect ; 
the  only  thing  that  remained,  the  betrayal  of  his  country,  was  now  to  be 
accomplished. 

Supported  by  powerful  influence,  he  obtained  command  of  West  Point. 
He  had  corresponded  for  some  months  with  Sir  Henry  Clinton,  through 
the  letters  of  his  wife  to  Major  Andre.  Andre  affixed  to  his  letter  the  sig 
nature,  John  Anderson,  and  Arnold  was  known  as  Gustavus.  Andre  from 
a  mere  correspondent  and  friend  of  the  wife,  was  at  last  selected  as  the 
great  co-partner  in  the  work  of  Treason.  He  was  raised  to  the  position  of 
Adjutant  General,  and  when  the  fall  of  West  Point  was  accomplished,  was 
to  be  created  a  Brigadier  General. 

'Die  Conspirators  met  within  the  American  lines  ;  by  some  inexplicable 
mistake  Andre  failed  to  go  on  board  the  Vulture,  attempted  to  return  to  New 
York  by  land,  and  was  captured  by  Paulding,  Williams,  and  Van  Wert. 


292  BENEDICT  ARNOLD. 

He  was  captured  on  the  23d  of  September,  1780.  On  the  25th,  Arnold 
escaped  to  the  Vulture.  On  the  2nd  of  October,  at  twelve  o'clock,  Andre 
was  hung. 

In  May  1781,  Arnold  returned  to  New  York  from  Virginia,  thus  nar- 
rowly  escaping  the  capitulation  of  Yorktown ;  in  September  he  laid  New 
London  in  ashes ;  and  in  December  he  sailed  from  the  Continent  for 
England. 

— Thus  plainly  in  short  sentences  and  abrupt  paragraphs,  without  the  least 
attempt  at  eloquence  or  display,  you  have  the  prominent  points  of  Arnold's 
career  before  you. 

Judge  every  heart  for  itself,  the  mystery  of  his  wonderful  life ! 

A  friendless  boy  becomes  a  merchant,  a  man  of  wealth,  a  bankrupt,  a 
druggist.  From  the  druggist  he  suddenly  flashes  into  the  Hero  of  the  Wil 
derness  and  Quebec,  the  Victor  of  Champlain  and  Saratoga.  In  renown  as 
a.  soldier  and  general,  having  no  superior  save  Washington,  he  is  constantly 
pursued  by  charges,  and  as  constantly  meets  them  face  to  face.  The  best 
men  of  the  nation  love  him,  Washington  is  his  friend,  and  yet  after  the  tor- 
ture  of  thirteen  months  delay,  his  accusers  press  their  charges  home,  and 
ne  is  disgraced  for  using  the  public  wagons  of  Pennsylvania. 

Married  to  a  beautiful  wife,  he  uses  her  letters  to  an  intimate  friend  as 
the  vehicles  of  his  treason,  and  afterwards  meets  that  friend  as  a  brother 
conspirator.  Resolved  to  betray  his  country,  he  does  not  frankly  break  his 
sword,  and  before  all  the  world  proclaim  himself  a  friend  of  the  King,  but 
in  darkness  and  mystery  plans  the  utter  ruin  of  Washington's  army. 

His  star  rises  at  Quebec,  culminates  at  Saratoga,  and  sets  in  eternal  night 
in  the  reprimand  of  Morristown.  When  it  appears  again,  it  is  no  longer  a 
star,  but  a  meteor  streaming  along  a  midnight  sky,  and  flashing  a  sepulchral 
light  over  the  ruins  of  a  world. 

The  track  of  his  glory  covers  the  space  of  live  years. 

When  we  contemplate  his  life,  we  at  once  scorn  and  pity,  despise  and 
admire,  frown  and  weep.  His  strange  story  convulses  us  with  all  imagina 
ble  emotion.  So  much  light,  so  much  darkness,  so  much  glory,  so  much 
dishonor,  so  much  meanness,  so  much  magnanimity,  so  much  iron-hearted 
despair,  so  much  womanly  tenderness  in  the  form  of  Benedict  Arnold  !  In 
the  lonely  hours  of  night,  when  absorbed  in  the  books  which  tell  of  him,  or 
searching  earnestly  the  memorials  which  are  left  on  the  track  of  time,  to 
record  his  career,  I  have  felt  the  tears  come  to  my  eyes,  and  the  blood  beat 
more  tumultuously  at  my  heart. 

If  there  is  a  thing  under  Heaven,  that  can  wring  the  heart,  it  is  to  see  a 
Great  Man  deformed  by  petty  passions,  a  Heroic  Soul  plunged  all  at  once 
into  the  abyss  of  infamy.  We  all  admire  Genius  in  its  eagle  flight — but 
who  has  the  courage  to  behold  its  fall  ? 

To  see  the  Eagle  that  soared  so  proudly  toward  the  rising  sun,  fall  with 
broken  wing  and  torn  breast  into  the  roadside  mire — to  see  the  white 


THE    RIGHT    ARM.  293 

column  that  rose  so  beautifully  through  the  night  of  a  desert  waste,  the  \ 
memorial  of  some  immortal  deed,  suddenly  crumble  into  dust — to  see  the 
form  that  we  have  loved  as  a  holy  thing,  in  a  moment  change  into  a  leprous    ' 
deformity — Who  would  not  weep  ? 

And  then  through  the  mist  of  sixty-seven  years,  the  agonized  words  of 
Washington  thrills  us  with  deep  emotion — "  Whom — "  he  cried,  "  WHOM 

CAN  WE  TRUST  NOW  ?" 

You  may  not  be  able  to  appreciate  my  feelings  when  I  survey  the  career 
of  Arnold,  but  you  will  in  any  event,  do  justice  to  the  honesty  of  my  pur 
pose.  Arnold  has  not  one  friend,  on  the  wide  earth  of  God,  unless  indeed 
his  true-hearted  sister  survives.  His  name  is  a  Blot,  his  memory  a  Pesti 
lence.  Therefore  no  mercenary  considerations  sway  me  in  this  my  solemn 
task.  Had  money  been  my  object,  I  might  have  served  it  better,  by  writ- 
ing  certain  Traitors  into  Heroes,  and  believe  me  there  are  plenty  of  grand 
children,  with  large  fortunes,  who  would  pay  handsomely  to  have  it  done. 

But  Arnold — where  is  there  a  friend — to  pay  for  one  tear  shed  over  his 
dishonored  grave  ? 

Guided  by  the  same  feeling  with  which  I  investigated  the  character  of 
Washington,  and  found  it  more  Pure  and  Beautiful  than  even  the  dull  history 
tells  it,  1  have  taken  up  Arnold  and  looked  at  him  in  every  light,  and  to  his 
good  and  evil,  rendered — JUSTICE. 

Those  who  expect  to  find  in  my  pages,  a  minute  record  of  his  petty 
faults — how  he  burnt  grasshoppers  when  a  little  boy,  or  swindled  grown 
men  out  of  fine  black  horses,  when  a  warrior — will  be  wofully  disappointed. 

It  may  be  true  that  he  defrauded  some  one  of  the  price  of  a  horse,  but 
while  we  abuse  him  for  the  deed,  let  us  at  least  remember,  that  he  had  a 
strange  way  of  killing  his  horses  throughout  the  war.  It  was  his  chance 
to  ride  ever  in  the  front  of  the  fight.  Then  as  he  plunged  into  the  jaws  of 
Death,  snatching  the  laurel  leaf  of  victory  from  the  brow  of  a  skull,  his 
horse  would  fall  under  him,  gored  by  a  chain-shot,  or  rent  by  a  cannon  ball. 

It  was  my  intention  to  have  drawn  a  portrait  of  his  character,  in  conclu 
sion  of  this  Tragedy,  to  have  compared  him  with  the  heroes  and  ac 
cursed  ones  of  olden  times,  but  the  pen  drops  from  my  hand 

I  can  only  say — 

Lucifer  was  the  Son  of  the  Morning,  brightest  and  most  beautiful  of  all 
the  hosts  of  Heaven.  Pride  and  Ambition  worked  his  ruin.  But  when  he 
fell,  the  angels  were  bathed  in  tears. 

XXVI.— THE    RIGHT   ARM. 

FIFTY  years  ago,  a  terrible  storm  shook  the  city  of  London.  At  the  dead 
of  night,  when  the  storm  was  at  its  highest,  an  aged  minister,  living  near 
one  of  the  darkest  suburbs  of  the  city,  was  aroused  by  an  earnest  cry  foi 
help.  Looking  from  his  window,  he  beheld  a  rude  man,  clad  in  the  coarse 


, 

394  BENEDlol    ARNOLD. 

attire  of  a  sweeper  of  the  public  streets.  In  a  few  moments,  while  the  ram 
came  down  in  torrents,  and  the  storm  growled  above,  that  preacher,  leaning 
on  the  arm  of  the  scavenger,  threaded  his  way  to  the  dark  suburb,  listening 
meanwhile  to  the  story  of  the  dying  man. 

That  very  day,  a  strange  old  man  had  fallen  speechless,  in  front  of  the 
scavenger's  rude  home.  The  good-hearted  street-sweeper  had  taken  him 
in — laid  him  on  his  bed — he  had  not  once  spoken — and  now  he  was  dying. 

This  was  the  story  of  that  rough  man. 

And  now  through  dark  alleys,  among  miserable  tenements,  that  seemed 
about  to  topple  down  upon  their  heads,  into  the  loneliest  and  dreariest 
suburb  of  the  city,  they  passed,  that  white-haired  minister  and  his  guide. 
At  last  into  a  narrow  court,  and  up  dark  stairs,  that  cracked  beneath  their 
tread,  and  then  into  the  death  room. 

It  was  in  truth  a  miserable  place. 

A  glimmering  light  stood  on  a  broken  chair. — There  were   the  rough 
,    walls,  there  the  solitary  garret  window,  with  the  rain  beating  in,  through 
the  rags  and  straw,  which  stuffed  the  broken  panes, — and  there,  amid  a  heap 
of  cold  ashes,  the  small  valise,  which  it  seems  the  stranger  had  with  him. 

In  one  corner,  on  the  coarse  straw  of  the  ragged  bed,  lay  the  dying  man. 
He  was  but  half-dressed  ;  his  legs  were  concealed  in  long  military  boots. 

The  aged  preacher  drew  near,  and  looked  upon  him.  And  as  he  looked, 
throb — throb — throb — you  might  hear  the  death-watch  ticking  in  the  shat 
tered  wall. 

It  was  the  form  of  a  strong  man,  grown  old  with  care  more  than  age. 

There  was  a  face,  that  you  might  look  upon  but  once,  and  yet  wear  in 
your  memory  for  ever. 

Let  us  bend  over  the  bed,  and  look  upon  that  face  :  A  bold  forehead, 
seamed  by  one  deep  wrinkle  between  the  brows — long  locks  of  dark  hair, 
sprinkled  with  grey — lips  firmly  set,  yet  quivering  as  though  they  had  a 
life,  separate  from  the  life  of  the  man — and  then  two  large  eyes,  vivid, 
burning,  unnatural  in  their  steady  glare. 

Ah,  there  was  something  so  terrible  in  that  face — something  so  full  of 
unutterable  loneliness,  unspeakable  despair — that  the  aged  minister  started 
back  in  horror 

But  look  !  Those  strong  arms  are  clutching  at  the  vacant  air — the  death- 
sweat  starts  in  drops  upon  that  bold  brow — the  man  is  dying. 

Throb — throb — throb — beats  the  death-watch  in  the  shattered  wall. 

"Would  you  die  in  the  faith  of  the  Christian  ?"  faltered  the  preacher,  as 
be  knelt  there,  on  the  damp  floor. 

The  white  lips  of  the  death-stricken  man  trembled,  but  made  no  sound. 

Then,  with  the  strong  agony  of  death  upon  him,  he  rose  into  a  sitting 
posture.  For  the  first  time,  he  spoke: 

"Christian  !"  he  echoed  in  that  deep  tone,  which  thrilled  the  preacher  to 
the  heirt,  "will  that  faith  give  me  back  my  honor  ?  Come  with  me,  oM 


THE   RIGHT  ARM.  295 

man — come  with  me,  far  over  the  waters.  Hah  !  we  are  there  !  This  is 
my  native  town.  Yonder  is  the  church  in  which  I  knelt  in  childhood — 
yonder  the  green  on  which  I  sported  when  a  boy.  But  another  flag  waves 
yonder  in  place  of  the  flag  that  waved  when  I  was  a  child.  And  listen, 
old  man,  where  I  to  pass  along  the  street,  as  I  passed  when  but  a  child,  the 
very  babes  in  their  cradles  would  raise  their  tiny  hands  and  curse  me. 
The  graves  in  yonder  graveyard  would  shrink  from  my  footsteps,  and  yonder 
flag — would  rain  a  baptism  of  blood  upon  my  head  ?" 

That  was  an  awful  death-bed.  The  minister  had  watched  the  "last 
night"  with  a  hundred  convicts  in  their  cells,  and  yet  never  beheld  a  scene 
so  terrible  as  this. 

Suddenly  the  dying  man  arose.  He  tottered  along  the  floor.  With  those 
white  fingers,  whose  nails  are  blue  with  the  death-chill,  he  threw  open  the 
valise.  He  drew  from  thence  a  faded  coat  of  blue,  faced  with  silver,  an 
old  parchment,  a  piece  of  damp  cloth,  that  looked  like  the  wreck  of  a 
battle-flag. 

"Look  ye,  priest,  this  faded  coat  is  spotted  with  my  blood!"  he  cried,  as 
old  memories  seemed  stirring  at  his  heart.  "This  coat  I  wore,  when  I 
first  heard  the  news  of  Lexington — this  coat  I  wore,  when  I  planted  the 
banner  of  the  stars  on  Ticonderoga  !  That  bullet-hole  was  pierced  in  the 
fight  of  Quebec  ;  and  now — I  am  a — let  me  whisper  it  in  your  ear  !" 

He  hissed  that  single,  burning  word  into  the  minister's  ear. 

"  Now  help  me,  priest,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  grown  suddenly  tremulous  ; 
"  help  me  to  put  on  this  coat  of  blue  and  silver.  For  you  see — "  and  a 
ghastly  smile  came  over  his  face — "  there  is  no  one  here  to  wipe  the  cold 
drops  from  my  brow  ;  no  wife — no  child — I  must  meet  death  alone  ;  but  I 
will  meet  him,  as  I  have  met  him  in  battje,  without  a  fear  !" 

And  while  he  stood  arraying  his  limbs  in  that  worm-eaten  coat  of  blue 
and  silver,  the  good  preacher  spoke  to  him  of  faith  in  Jesus.  Yes,  of  that 
great  faith,  which  pierces  the  clouds  of  human  guilt,  and  rolls  them  back 
from  the  face  of  God. 

"  Faith  !"  echoed  that  strange  man,  who  stood  there,  erect,  with  the 
death-chill  on  his  brow,  the  death-light  in  his  eye  "  Faith  ?  Can  it  give 
me  back  my  honor  ?  Look,  ye  priest,  there  over  the  waves,  sits  George 
Washington,  telling  to  his  comrades,  the  pleasant  story  of  the  eight  years' 
war — there  in  his  royal  halls  sits  George  of  England,  bewailing  in  his  idiot 
voice,  the  loss  of  his  Colonies.  And  here  am  I — I — who  was  the  first  to 
raise  the  flag  of  freedom,  the  first  to  strike  a  blow  against  that  King — here 
am  I,  dying,  ah,  dying  like  a  dog  !" 

The  awe-stricken  preacher  started  back  from  the  look  of  the  dying  man, 
while  throb — throb — throb — beat  the  death-watch  in  the  shattered  wall. 

"  Hush  !  silence  along  the  lines  there  !"  he  muttered,  in  that  wild  absent 
lone,  as  though  speaking  to  the  dead  ;  "  silence  along  the  lines  !  Not  a 
word,  not  a  word  on  peril  of  your  lives.  Hark  you,  Montgomery,  we  will 


296  BENEDICT   ARNOLD. 

meet  in  the  centre  of  the  town.  We  will  meet  there,  in  victory,  or  die  !— 
Hist  !  Silence,  my  men — not  a  whisper,  as  we  move  up  these  steep  rocks  ! 
Now  on,  my  boys,  now  on  !  Men  of  the  Wilderness,  we  will  gain  the 
town  ! — Now  up  with  the  banner  of  the  stars — up  with  the  flag  of  freedom, 
though  the  night  is  dark  and  the  snow  falls  !  Now — now — "  shrieked  that 
death  stricken  man,  towering  there,  in  the  blue  uniform,  with  his  clenched 
hands  waving  in  the  air — "  now,  now  !  One  blow  more,  and  Quebec  is 
ours  !" 

And  look  !  His  eye  grows  glassy.  With  that  word  on  his,  he  stands 
there — ah,  what  a  hideous  picture  of  despair,  erect,  livid,  ghastly  !  There 
for  a  moment,  and  then  he  falls  !  He  is  dead  ! 

Ah,  look  at  that  proud  form,  thrown  cold  and  stiff  upon  the  damp  floor. 
In  that  glassy  eye  there  lingers,  even  yet,  a  horrible  energy — a  sublimity 
of  despair. 

Who  is  this  strange  man,  dying  here  alone,  in  this  rude  garret — this  man, 
who,  in  all  his  crimes,  still  treasured  up  that  blue  uniform,  that  faded  flag  ? 

Who  is  this  being  of  horrible  remorse  ? — this  man,  whose  memories  seem 
lo  link  something  of  heaven,  and  more  of  hell  ? 

Let  us  look  at  that  parchment  and  flag 

The  aged  minister  unrolls  that  faded  flag — it  is  a  blue  banner,  gleaming 
with  thirteen  stars. 

He  unrolls  that  parchment.  It  is  a  colonel's  commission  in  the  Conti 
nental  army,  addressed  to — BENEDICT  ARNOLD  ! 

And  there,  m  that  rude  hut,  while  the  death-watch  throbbed  like  a  hes.it 
in  the  shattered  wall — there,  unknown,  unwept,  in  all  the  bitterness  of  deoo- 
iation,  lay  the  corse  of  the  Patriot  and  the  Traitor. 

O,  that  our  own  true  Washington  had  been  there,  to  sever  that  good  right 
arm  from  the  corse,  and  while  the  dishonored  body  rotted  into  dust,  to  bring 
home  that  good  right  arm,  and  embalm  it  among  the  holiest  memories  of 
the  Past. — 

For  that  right  arm  struck  many  a  gallant  blow  for  freedom,  yonder  at 
Ticonderoga,  at  Quebec,  Champlain,  and  Saratoga — THAT  ARM,  YONDER, 

BENEATH  THE  SNOW-WHITE  MOUNTAIN,  IN  THE  DEEP  SILENCE  OF  THE  RIVER 
OF  THE  DEAD,  FIRST  RAISED  INTO  LIGHT  THE  BANNER  OF  THE  STARS. 


BOOK  FOURTH, 

THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 


(297) 


li, 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 


I.— THE  GLORY  OF  THE  LAND  OF  PENN. 

BEAUTIFUL  in  her  solitary  grandeur — fair  as  a  green  island  in  a  desert 
waste,  proud  as  a  lonely  column,  reared  in  the  wilderness — rises  the  land 
of  Penn,  in  the  History  of  America. 

Here,  beneath  the  Elm  of  Shackamaxon,  was  first  reared  the  holy  altar 
of  Toleration. 

Here,  from  the  halls  of  the  old  State  House,  was  first  proclaimed,  that 
Bible  of  the  Rights  of  Man — the  Declaration  of  Independence. 

Here,  William  Penn  asserted  the  mild  teachings  of  a  Gospel,  whose 
every  word  was  Love.  Here,  Franklin  drew  down  the  lightnings  from  the 
sky,  and  bent  the  science  of  ages  to  the  good  of  toiling  man.  Here,  JerTer- 
son  stood  forth,  the  consecrated  Prophet  of  Freedom,  proclaiming,  from 
Independence  Hall,  the  destiny  of  a  Continent,  the  freedom  of  a  People. 

Here,  that  band  of  men,  compared  to  whom  the  Senators  of  Rome  dwin 
dle  into  parish  demagogues, — the  Continental  Congress — held  their  solemn 
deliberations,  with  the  halter  and  the  axe  before  their  eyes. 

New  England  we  love  for  her  Adams',  her  Hancocks,  and  her  Warrens. 
Her  battlefields  of  Bunker  Hill  and  Concord  and  Lexington,  speak  to  us 
with  a  voice  that  can  never  die.  The  South,  too,  ardent  in  her  fiery  blood, 
luxuriant  in  flowers  and  fruits,  we  love  for  her  Jefferson,  her  Lees,  her  im 
mortal  Patrick  Henry.  Not  a  rood  of  her  soil  but  is  richer  for  the  martyr 
blood  of  heroes. 

But  while  we  love  the  North  or  the  South  for  their  Revolutionary  glories, 
we  must  confess  that  the  land  of  Penn  claims  a  glory  higher  and  holier  than 
either.  The  glory  of  the  Revolution  is  hers,  but  the  mild  light  of  science 
irradiates  her  hills,  the  pure  Gospel  of  William  Penn  shines  forever  over 
the  pages  of  her  past. 

While  we  point  to  Maryland  for  her  Calvert  and  her  Carroll,  to  Jersey 
for  her  Witherspoon,  to  Delaware  for  her  Kirk  wood  and  M'Lane — while 
we  bow  to  the  Revolutionary  fame  of  New  England  and  the  South,  we 
must  confess  that  the  land  of  Penn  has  been  miserably  neglected  by  history. 

It  i?  a  singular  fact,  that  while  all  other  States  have  their  eulogists,  their 
historians,  and  their  orators,  to  speak  oi  their  past  glory,  their  present  pros 
perity,  and  their  present  fame,  yet  has  Pennsylvania  been  neglected  ;  she 

(299) 


300  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

has  been  slighted  by  the  historian  ;  her  triumphs  and  her  glories  have  been 
made  a  matter  of  sparse  and  general  narrative. 

Our  own  fair  land  of  Penn  has  no  orator  to  celebrate  her  glories,  to  point 
to  her  past ;  she  has  no  Pierpont  to  hymn  her  illustrious  dead  ;  no  Jared 
Sparks  to  chronicle  her  Revolutionary  granduer. 

And  yet  the  green  field  of  Germantown,  the  twilight  vale  of  the  Brandy- 
wine,  the  blood-nurtured  soil  of  Paoli,  all  have  their  memories  of  the  Past, 
all  are  stored  with  their  sacred  treasure  of  whitened  bones.  From  the  far 
North,  old  Wyoming  sends  forth  her  voice — from  her  hills  of  granduer  and 
her  vallies  of  beauty,  she  sends  her  voice,  and  at  the  sound  the  Mighty  Dead 
of  the  land  of  Penn  sweep  by,  a  solemn  pageant  of  the  Past.  The  char 
acter  of  the  Pennsylvanian  has  been  mockingly  derided,  by  adventurers  from 
all  parts  of  the  Union.  We  have  been  told  that  our  people — the  Pennsyl- 
vanians — had  no  enterprise,  no  energy,  no  striking  and  effective  qualities. 
Southern  chivalry  has  taunted  us  with  ouj:  want  of  daring  ardor  in  the  re 
sentment  of  insult ;  Northern  speculation  has  derided  our  sluggishness  in 
falling  into  all  the  mad  adventures  of  these  gambling  and  money-making  times. 

To  the  North  we  make  no  reply.  Let  our  mountains,  with  their  stores 
of  exhaustless  wealth,  answer ;  let  the  meadows  of  Philadelphia,  the  rich 
plains  of  old  Berks,  the  green  fields  of  Lancaster  answer;  let  old  Susque- 
hannah,  with  her  people  of  iron  nerve,  and  her  mountain-shores  of  wealth 
and  cultivation,  send  forth  her  reply. 

And  to  the  South — what  shall  be  our  answer  ?  They  ask  for  our  illus 
trious  dead  !  They  point  to  the  blood  stained  fields  of  Carolina.  They  ask, 
where  are  your  fields  of  battle  ?  They  point  to  Marion — to  Sumpter — to 
Lee — to  all  the  host  of  heroes  who  blaze  along  the  Southern  sky — *•  Penn- 
sylvanians,  where  are  your  heroes  of  the  Revolution?" 

They  need  not  ask  their  question  more  than  once.  For,  at  the  sound, 
from  his  laurelled  grave  in  old  Chester,  springs  to  life  again,  the  hero  of 
Pennsylvania's  olden  time,  the  undaunted  General,  the  man  of  Paoli  and  of 
Stony  Point,  whose  charge  was  like  the  march  of  the  hurricane,  whose 
night-assault  scared  the  British  as  though  a  thunderbolt  had  fallen  in  their  midst. 

We  need  not  repeat  his  name.  The  aged  matron,  sitting  at  the  farm 
house  door  of  old  Chester,  in  the  calm  of  summer  twilight,  speaks  that 
name  to  the  listening  group  of  grand-children,  and  the  old  Revolutioner, 
trembling  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  his  intellect  faded,  his  mind  broken, 
and  his  memory  gone,  will  start  and  tremble  with  a  new  life  at  the  name, 
and  as  he  brushes  the  tear  from  the  quivering  eye-lid  of  age,  will  exclaim — 
with  a  feeling  of  pride  that  a  century  cannot  destroy — "  I — I,  too,  was  a 
soldier  with — mad  Anthony  Wayne  !" 

Bunker  Hill  has  its  monument,  New  England  her  historians,  South  Car 
olina  her  orators — but  the  field  of  Germantown,  and  the  meadows  of  Bran- 
dywine — where  are  their  monumental  pillars,  their  historians,  their  orators  ? 

And  yet  the  freemen  of  our  Land  of  Penn  may  stroll  over  the  green  lawn 


THE    PROPHET  OF  THE   BRAttDYWINE.  301 

of  Germantown,  mark  the  cannon-rifts  on  the  walls  of  Chew's  House,  hear 
the  veteran  of  the  Revolution  discourse  of  the  bloodshed  of  the  4th  of  Oc- 
lober,  1777 — and  count  the  mounds  that  mark  the  resting  place  of  the  dead, 
and  feel  his  heart  throb,  and  his  pulse  warm,  although  no  monumental 
pillar  arises  from  the  green  lawn,  no  trophied  column  consecrates  the  re 
pose  of  the  slain. 

And  when  the  taunt  falls  from  the  lips  of  the  wanderer  and  adventurer, 
when  the  South  sneers  and  the  north  derides,  then  let  the  Pennsylvania!) 
remember  that  though  the  Land  of  Penn  has  no  history,  yet  is  her  story 
written  on  her  battlefields  of  blood  ;  that  though  she  has  no  marble  pillars, 
jr  trophied  columns,  yet  her  monuments  are  enduring  and  undecaying — 
they  are  there — breaking  evermore  into  the  sky — her  monuments  are  her 
own  eternal  mountains. 

Her  dead  are  scattered  over  the  Continent ; — Quebec  and  Saratoga, 
Camden  and  Bunker  Hill,  to  this  hour  retain  their  bones  ! 

Nameless  and  unhonored,  "  Poor  Men  Heroes"  of  Pennsylvania 
sleep  the  last  slumber  on  every  battlefield  of  the  Revolution.  Their  his- 
tory  would  crowd  ten  volumes  like  this ;  it  has  never  been  written. 

In  every  spear  of  grass  that  grows  on  our  battlefields,  in  every  wild 
flower  that  blooms  above  the  dead  of  the  Revolution,  you  read  the  quiet 
heroism  of  the  children  of  the  Land  of  Penn. 

Be  just  to  us,  People  of  the  North  !  Do  not  scorn  our  history,  Chivalry 
of  the  South  ! 

While  we  gladly  admit  the  brightness  of  your  fame,  do  not  utterly  forget 
the  nameless  and  neglected 

HEROES  OF  THE  LAND  OF  PENN. 

II.— THE  PROPHET  OF  THE  BRANDYWINE. 

THE  Alleghanies  lifting  their  summits  into  the  sky,  while  their  sides  are 
gorgeous  with  the  draperies  of  autumn,  and  old  Susquehanna  flows  grandly 
at  their  feet !  This  is  a  sight  at  once  religious  and  sublime. 

The  Wissahikon,  flowing  for  miles  through  its  dark  gorge,  where  grey 
rocks  arise  and  giant  pines  interlock  their  branches  from  opposing  cliffs  ! 
This  is  a  sight  of  wild  romance — a  vision  of  supernatural  beauty. 

But  when  you  seek  a  vision  of  that  pastoral  loveliness,  which  fired  the 
poets  of  Greece  and  Rome, — that  loveliness  which  presents  in  one  view,  the 
ripeness  of  the  orchard,  the  green  slope  of  the  meadow,  the  mirror-like 
beauty  of  tranquil  waters, — then  come  with  me  to  the  shades  of  Brandy  wine  ! 

In  the  southern  part  of  old  Chester  County — near  the  line  of  Pennsly va- 
nia  and  Delaware — this  valley  bursts  on  your  eye,  in  one  vivid  panorama 
of  beauty  and  gloom. 

It  seems  as  though  the  hand  of  God,  stretched  out  from  yonder  sky,  had 
scattered  his  blessing  broadcast  over  hill  and  dale. 


J02  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

A  clear  and  glassy  stream,  now  overshadowed  by  drooping  elm  or  oaken 
.rees,  now  open  to  the  gleam  of  the  sunlight,  winds  along  amid  the  recesses 
of  this  valley.  Sloping  to  the  east,  a  plain  of  level  earth  spreads  green  and 
grassy — a  lake  of  meadow — winding  with  each  bend  of  the  rivulet  on  the 
one  side,  and  arising  on  the  other  into  massive,  mound-like  hills.  These 
hills  are  baptized  in  beauty.  Here  crowded  into  one  glowing  view,  you 
may  behold  the  chesnut,  the  oak,  and  the  beech  tree ;  here  you  may  see 
the  brown  field  of  upturned  earth,  the  green  corn,  the  golden  wheat,  the 
meadowy  pasturage. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  lovely  valley. 

In  the  summer  time,  those  ancient  farm-houses,  scattered  along  the  bed 
of  the  vale,  look  out  from  amid  the  rustic  beauty  of  embroidered  verdure. 
Each  knoll  is  magnificent  with  the  foliage  of  its  clustered  trees.  The  wild 
vine  on  the  rock,  the  forest  flowers  scattered  over  the  ground,  the  grapes 
drooping  in  clusters  from  the  tall  trees,  silence  and  shadow  in  the  bushy 
dells,  music  and  verdure  on  the  plain — ah,  it  is  beautiful  in  summer  time, 
this  valley  of  the  meadow  and  rivulet.  Here  indeed,  the  verdure  seems 
richer,  the  skies  more  serene  ;  here  the  hills  arise  with  a  more  undulating 
grandeur,  than  in  any  other  valley  throughout  the  Continent.  The  Hudson 
is  sublime  ;  the  Susquehanna  terrible  and  beautiful  ;  the  Wissahikon  lone 
and  supernatural  in  its  beauty ;  but  the  witchery  of  the  Brandy  wine  is  at 
once  quiet,  gentle,  and  full  of  peace.  A  sinless  virgin  with  gentle  thoughts 
gleaming  from  her  mild  eye,  soft  memories  flushing  over  her  young  cheek, 
grace  in  her  gestures  and  music  in  her  voice — such  is  the  Brandy  wine 
among  rivers,  such  her  valley  among  other  valleys  ! 

Far  away  from  the  Brandywine,  yet  within  an  half  hour's  ride  in  the 
centre  of  this  Garden  of  the  Lord,  arises  an  old-time  church. 

Here  are  no  towers  to  impress  the  soul  with  images  of  gloom ;  no  marble 
monuments  to  glare  upon  you  through  the  night ;  here  is  no  majestic  dome 
swelling  up  with  the  sky,  with  its  cross  gleaming  in  the  stars.  No  ! 

A  plain  one  storied  fabric,  stands  in  one  corner  of  a  small  enclosure  of 
dark  green  grass.  This  enclosure  is  fenced  from  the  field  and  highway  by 
a  wall  of  grey  stone;  this  fabric,  built  of  the  same  kind  of  stone,  is  sur 
mounted  by  a  plain  roof.  Such  is  the  Meeting  House,  such  the  Graveyard 
of  the  Brandywine. 

Yet  there  are  certain  dim  stains  of  blood  upon  those  walls  ;  there  are 
marks  of  bullet  and  cannon  ball  along  that  roof. 

I  never  shall  forget  that  calm  still  hour,  when  my  foot  pressed  the  grave 
yard  sod.  It  was  in  the  purple  glory  of  an  evening  in  fall.  The  sky  all 
azure  and  gold,  arched  calmly  overhead.  Around  lay  the  beautiful  sweep 
of  hill  and  valley  ;  here  an  orchard  heavy  with  ripened  fruit ;  yonder  a 
quaint  old  farm-house  ;  and  far  away  the  summit  of  the  battle  hill  crowned 
with  woods,  rose  up  into  the  evening  sky.  There  was  a  holy  calmness,  a 
ioftened  sadness  on  the  air. 


THE    PROPHET    OF    THE   BRANDYWINE  303 

Standing  by  that  rude  wall,  I  looked  upon  the  mounds  of  the  graveyard, 
and  examined  with  a  reverential  glance,  the  most  minute  details  of  the  old 
fabric,  its  walls  and  doors,  windows  and  roof.  As  I  stood  there,  a  stranger 
and  a  pilgrim  on  that  holy  ground,  an  old  man  stood  by  my  side,  his  wrinkled 
visage  glowing  with  the  last  radiance  of  day.  He  was  grey-haired.  His 
dress  was  a  plain  farmer's  costume,  and  as  for  his  speech,  although  not  a 
Quaker,  he  said  «« thee"  and  "  thou." 

And  while  the  silence  of  evening  gathered  round  us,  that  old  man  told  me 
stories  of  the  battle-field  that  thrilled  my  blood.  He  was  but  a  boy  on  the 
battle-day,  yet  he  remembered  the  face  of  Washington,  the  look  of  La 
Fayette,  the  hearty  war-shout  of  Anthony  Wayne.  He  also  had  a  memory 
of  a  wild  dusky  figure,  that  went  crashing  over  the  field  on  a  black  horse, 
with  long  flakes  of  dark  hair  flying  over  his  shoulders.  Was  this  the 
Count  Pulaski? 

Yet  there  was  one  legend,  falling  from  the  old  man's  lips,  which  struck 
my  soul  with  its  supernatural  beauty. 

It  was  not  the  legend  of  the  maiden,  who  watching  the  setting  moon,  in 
the  silence  of  midnight,  beheld  a  dark  cloud  lowering  over  the  valley,  and 
thronged  with  the  phantoms  of  opposing  armies. — Nor  was  it  that  wild  tra 
dition  of  Lord  Percy,  whose  grave  was  at  my  feet.  No  !  It  was  a  legend 
of  a  Sabbath  day,  some  forty  years  before  the  battle,  when  Peace  stood 
serene  and  smiling  on  these  hills,  her  hands  extended  in  blessings  over  the 
valley.  It  was  a  legend  which  impresses  us  with  the  belief  that  God  sends 
his  warning  voice  to  the  sons  of  men,  ere  they  pollute  his  earth  with  the 
blood  of  battle. 

More  than  one  hundred  years  ago — forty  years  before  the  battle — the 
plain  walls  of  the  Quaker  Meeting  House  arose  in  the  calm  light  of  a  Sab 
bath  afternoon,  in  the  first  flush  of  June. 

Here  in  the  stillness  of  that  Sabbath  hour,  the  Quaker  brethren  were  as 
sembled,  listening  to  the  earnest  words  of  the  preacher,  who  stood  in  their 
midst. 

He  stood  there,  in  that  rude  gallery  which  supplied  the  place  of  pulpit 
and  altar,  his  snow-white  hair  sweeping  to  his  shoulders,  while  his  calm 
blue  eyes  shone  with  a  mild  light,  as  he  spake  of  the  Saviour,  who  hung 
upon  the  cross,  for  the  salvation  of  all  mankind. 

Yes,  in  calm  and  even  tones,  touched  with  a  deep  pathos,  he  spoke  of 
the  life  of  Jesus.  While  his  accents  fell  round  the  rude  place — as  the 
breeze  of  June  came  softly  through  the  opened  windows,  as  a  vision  of  hill 
and  valley  lay  there,  mellowing  in  the  light  of  the  afternoon  sun — his 
hearers  were  hushed  into  deep  silence 

Yon  aged  Quaker  there — whose  white  hairs  had  once  been  pressed  by 
the  hands  of  William  Penn,  bent  his  head  upon  his  staff  and  listened — yon 


304  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

bold  backwoodsman,  standing  beside  the  open  window,  in  his  robes  of  fur, 
crossed  his  arms  upon  his  breast,  as  the  story  of  the  Saviour's  life  broke 
on  his  ears  ;  nay,  even  the  wild  and  wandering  Indian,  won  by  the  tones  of 
the  preacher's  voice,  dropped  his  knife  and  rifle  on  the  graveyard  sod,  and 
standing  silent  and  motionless  in  yonder  door-way,  listened  with  a  mute 
wonder  to  that  strange  story  of  JESUS. 

And  there,  listening  also  to  the  preacher's  words,  was  woman  ;  yes,  wo 
man,  with  her  big  eyes  dim  with  tears,  her  parted  lips  quivering  with  sus 
pense,  leaning  forward  with  clasped  hands  as  the  name  of  Jesus  trembled 
on  her  ear — yes,  clad  in  her  Quaker  garb,  yet  with  all  her  loveliness  about 
her,  there  was  woman,  listening  to  that  story  which  she  is  never  tired  of 
hearing :  the  story  of  the  Saviour  and  the  three  beautiful  women,  who 
watched  and  wept  with  him,  and  when  all  the  world  forsook  him,  still  came 
weeping  to  his  tomb. 

Then  the  old  man,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  pictured  the  horrors  of  that 
awful  day  when  Jerusalem  was  deserted  by  her  people;  while  Calvary 
throbbed  with  the  beating  of  ten  thousand  hearts — when  the  world  was 
dark,  while  its  Saviour  suspended  to  the  cross,  looked  down,  even  in  the 
moment  of  his  agony,  and  beheld — woman  watching  there  I 

Dilating  in  this  great  theme,  that  aged  man  began  to  predict  the  reign  of 
peace  over  all  the  world. 

"  This  valley,"  he  said,  elevating  his  form,  and  speaking  in  the  low  deep 
tone  of  a  prophet,  *«  This  valley  shall  never  be  stained  with  human 
blood  !" 

His  attitude,  his  voice,  that  uplifted  hand — all  were  sublime. 

As  he  stood,  a  silence  like  the  grave,  prevailed  throughout  the  Quaker 
church. 

"  Here  Peace,  driven  from  the  old  world  shall  find  a  home  at  last.  War 
may  ravage  the  old  world,  Murder  may  look  down  upon  its  battle-fields,  and 
Persecution  light  its  flames  !  But  here,  yea,  here  in  this  beautiful  valley, 
shall  the  sons  of  men  rear  at  last  the  altar  to  the  UNKNOWN  GOD — that  God 
of  Peace,  whose  face  for  near  two  thousand  years,  has  been  hidden  by  the 
smoke  of  slaughter.  Here  shall  be  reared  the  altar  of  peace ;  this  valley 
shall  never  be  stained  with  human  blood  !" 

His  manner  was  rapt,  his  tone  eloquent,  but  even  as  the  word  "  Peace," 
rung  from  his  lips,  an  awful  change  came  over  him.  He  stood  there  clasp 
ing  the  railing  of  the  pulpit  with  trembling  hands — his  brow  was  damp,  as 
with  death-sweat — his  blue  eye  shone  with  a  wild  deep  light. 

The  brethren  started  from  their  seats  in  awe  and  wonder. 

"  Look !"  cried  the  aged  preacher,  in  gasping  tones,  «*  Look !  The 
vision  of  God  is  upon  me  !" 

Then  his  eye  was  fixed  upon  vacancy,  and  in  a  hollow  voice,  as  though 
some  awful  scene  of  human  guilt  was  before  his  sight,  he  spoke  this  strange 
jitophecy  : 


THE   PROPHET    OF    THE    BRANDYWINE.  305 

"  This  is  a  quiet  and  happy  place,  my  brethren,  and  the  Sabbath  sun- 
oeams  shine  with  a  mild  glow  upon  your  calm  and  peaceful  faces  ! 

"  But  the  day  cometh,  yea,  the  Lord  speaks,  and  I  hear  !  The  day 
cometh  when  those  mild  sunbeams  shall  shine  through  yonder  windows, 
but  shine  upon  heaps  of  dying,  heaps  of  dead,  piled  up  within  these  solemn 
walls  ! 

"  The  day  cometh  when  the  red  waves  of  battle  shall  roll  over  yonder 
meadow — when  the  quiet  of  these  walls  shall  be  broken  by  the  cry  of 
mortal  agony,  the  groan  of  the  parting  soul,  the  blasphemy  of  the  sinner, 
dying  the  death  of  murder,  blood  upon  his  brow,  and  despair  in  his  heart  ! 

"  Here  woman  shall  weep  for  her  husband,  butchered  in  battle  ;  here  the 
maiden  shall  place  her  hands  upon  the  cold   brow  of  her  lover  ;   little  chil 
dren  shall  kneel  beside  the  corse  of  the  murdered  father  ! 

"  The  Lord  speaks,  and  I  listen  ! 

^  The  sword  shall  gleam  within  these  walls  ;  the  bullet  rain  its  iron  hail 
upon  this  sacred  roof;  the  hoofs  of  the  war-horse  stamp  their  bloody  prints 
upon  this  floor  ! 

"  And  yonder  graveyard — do  ye  behold  it  ?  Is  it  not  beautiful,  as  its 
grassy  mounds  arise  in  the  mild  glow  of  the  afternoon  sun  ?  The  day 
cometh  when  yon  graveyard  shall  be  choked  with  ghastly  heaps  of  dead  — 
broken  limbs,  torn  corses,  all  crowded  together  in  the  graveyard  of  Peaco  ' 
Cokl  glassy  eyeballs — shattered  limbs — mangled  bodies — crushed  skulls — 
all  glowing  in  the  warm  light  of  the  setting  sun  !  For  the  Lord — for  the 
Lord  of  Israel  hath  spoken  it!" 

This  was  the  prophecy,  preserved  in  many  a  home  of  Brandy  wine. 

Years  passed  on.  The  old  men  who  had  heard  it  were  with  their 
fathers.  The  maidens  who  had  listened  to  its  words  of  omen,  were  grave 
matrons,  surrounded  by  groups  of  laughing  children.  Still  the  prophecy 
lingered  in  the  homes  of  Brandywine.  Still  it  was  whispered  by  the  lips 
of  the  old  to  the  ears  of  youth. 

At  last  a  morning  came  when  there  was  panic  in  the  very  air.  The 
earth  shook  to  the  tread  of  legions  ;  the  roads  groaned  beneath  the  weight 
of  cannon.  Suddenly  a  white  cloud  overspread  the  valley,  and  enveloped 
the  Quaker  temple.  Then  groans,  shouts,  curses,  were  heard.  The  white 
cloud  grew  darker.  It  advanced  far  over  the  plain,  like  a  banner  of  colossal 
murder.  It  rolled  around  yonder  hill,  it  lay  darkening  over  the  distant 
waters  of  the  Brandywine. 

At  last,  toward  evening  it  cleared  away. 

The  sun  shone  mildly  over  the  beautiful  landscape  ;  the  Brandyuine  rip 
pled  into  light  from  afar. 

But  the  beams  of  the  sun  lighted  up  the  cold  faces  of  the  dead,  with  a 
ghastly  glow. 

For  in  the  fields,  along  the  slope  of  yonder  hill  clown  by  the  spring  under 
trie  wild  cherry  tree,  in  the  graveyard  there,  and  within  the  walls  ol 


300  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

the  meeting  house,  were  nothing  but  dead  men,  whose  blood  drenched  the 
sod,  dyed  the  waters  of  the  spring  and  stained  the  temple  floor,  while  their 
souls  gathered  in  one  terrible  meeting  around  the  Throne  of  God. 

The  prophecy  had  met  its  fulfilment.  The  valley  of  Peace  had  been 
made  the  Gologotha  of  slaughter ;  the  house  of  prayer,  the  theatre  of  blood. 

III.— THE    FEAR   OF   WAR. 

IT  was  in  the  month  of  September,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord,._L777,  when 
the  Torch  of  Revolution  had  been  blazing  over  the  land  for  two  long  years, 
that  the  fear  of  war  first  startled  the  homes  of  Brandy  wine. 

For  many  days  the  rumor  was  vague  and  shadowy  ;  the  fear  of  war 
hovered  in  the  air,  with  the  awful  indistinctness  of  the  Panic,  that  precedes 
the  Pestilence. 

At  last,  the  rumor  took  form  and  shape  and  grew  into  a  Fact. 

General  Howe,  with  some  17,000  well  armed  and  disciplined  soldiers, 
had  landed  on  the  peninsula  of  Maryland  and  Delaware,  above  the  mouth 
of  the  Susquehanna.  His  object  was  the  conquest  and  possession  of  Phil 
adelphia,  distant  some  30  or  40  miles. 

To  attain  this  object,  he  would  sweep  like  a  tornado  over  the  luxuriant 
plains  that  lay  between  his  troops  and  the  city.  He  would  write  his  foot 
steps  on  the  soil,  in  the  fierce  Alphabet  of  blood — the  blasted  field,  the 
burned  farm-house,  the  bodies  of  dead  men,  hewn  down  in  defence  of  their 
hearth  sides,  these  all  would  track  his  course. 

With  this  announcement,  there  came  another  rumor — a  rumor  of  the 
approach  of  Washington  ;  he  came  from  the  direction  of  Wilmington,  with 
his  ill-clad  and  half-starved  Continentals  ;  he  came  to  face  the  British  In 
vader,  with  his  17,000  hirelings. 

It  became  a  fact  to  all,  that  the  peaceful  valley  of  the  Brandywine  was 
soon  to  be  the  chess  board,  on  which  a  magnificent  game  of  blood  and 

battle  would  soon  be  played  for  a  glorious  stake. The  city  of  Philadel- 

pnia,  with  its  stores  of  provisions,  its  munitions  of  war,  its  Continental 
Congress. 

IV.— THE  GATHERING  OF  THE  HOSTS. 

IT  was  the  9th  of  September. 

The  moon  was  up  in  the  blue  heavens.  Far  along  the  eastern  horizon, 
lay  a  wilderness  of  clouds,  piling  their  forms  of  huge  grandeur  up  in  deep 
azure  of  night. 

The  forests  of  Brandywine  arose  in  dim  indistinctness  into  the  soft 
moonlight.  There  were  deep  shadows  upon  the  meadows,  and  from  many 
a  farmer's  home,  the  light  of  the  hearth-side  lamp  poured  out  upon  the 
night. 

h  was  night  among  the  hills  of  Brandywine,  when  there  was  a  strang* 


THE    GATHERING    OF   THE   HOSTS.  307 

•ound  echoing  and  trembling  through  the  deep  forests.  There  was  a  strange 
sound  in  the  forest,  along  the  hills,  and  through  the  meadows,  arid  soon 
breaking  from  the  thick  shades,  there  came  a  multitude  of  dim  and  spectral 
forms. 

Yes,  breaking  into  the  light  of  the  moon,  there  came  a  strange  host  of 
men,  clad  in  military  costume,  with  bayonets  gleaming  through  the  air  and 
banners  waving  overhead. 

They  came  witli  the  regular  movement  of  military  discipline,  band  after 
band,  troop  after  troop,  column  after  column,  breaking  in  stern  silence  from 
the  covert  of  the  woods,  but  the  horses  of  the  cavalry  looked  jaded  and 
worn,  the  footsteps  of  the  infantry  were  clogged  and  leaden,  while  the  broad 
banners  of  this  strange  host,  waving  so  proudly  in  the  air,  waved  and  flut 
tered  in  rags.  The  bullet  and  the  cannon  ball  had  done  their  work  upon 
these  battle  flags  ! 

And  over  this  strange  host,  over  the  long  columns  of  troopers  and  foot- 
soldiers — over  the  baggage  wagons  bearing  the  sick,  the  wounded,  nay,  over 
the  very  flags  that  fluttered  into  light  on  every  side,  there  rose  one  broad 
and  massive  banner,  on  whose  blue  folds  were  pictured  thirteen  stars. 

Need  I  tell  you  the  name  of  this  host  ?  Look  down  yonder,  along  the 
valley  of  the  Brandy  wine,  and  mark  those  wasted  forms,  seared  by  the 
bullet  and  the  sword,  clad  in  rags,  with  rusted  musquets  in  their  hands  and 

dinted  swords  by  their  sides look  there  and  ask  the  name  of  this  strange 

host ! 

The  question  is  needless.  It  is  the  army  of  George  Washington,  for 
poverty  and  freedom  in  those  days,  walked  hand  in  hand,  over  rough  roads 
and  bloody  battlefields,  while  sleek  faces  and  broad  clothed  Loyalty  went 
pacing  merry  measures,  in  some  Royal  ball  room. 

And  thus,  in  silence,  in  poverty,  almost  in  despair,  did  the  army  of 
Washington  take  position  on  the  Held  of  Brandy  wine,  on  the  night  of  Sep 
tember  9th,  1777. 

And  over  the  banner  of  the  Continental  host,  sat  an  omen  of  despair,  a 
brooding  and  ghastly  Phantom,  perched  above  the  flag  of  freedom,  chuck 
ling  with  fiend-like  glee,  as  he  pointed  to  the  gloomy  Past  and  then — to  the 
Unknown  future. 

On  the  next  day,  the  Tenth  of  the  Month,  the  hosts  of  a  well-disciplined 
army  came  breaking  from  the  forests,  with  the  merry  peal  of  fife  and  drum, 
with  bugle  note  and  clarion  sound,  and  while  the  morning  sun  shone  brightly 
over  their  well  burnished  arms,  they  proceeded  to  occupy  an  open  space 
of  ground,  amid  the  shadow  of  the  woods,  at  a  place  called  Kennef  s  Square, 
some  seven  miles  westward  of  Chadd's  Ford,  where  Washington  had  taken 
his  position. 

How  grandly  they  broke  from  the  woods,  with  the  sunbeams,  shining  on 
the  gaudy  red  coat,  the  silver  laced  cap,  the  forest  of  nodding  plumes.  How 
proudly  their  red  cross  banner  waved  in  the  free  air,  as  though  not  ashamed 


308  THE   BATTLE    OF    BRANDYWINE. 

to  toy  ana  wanton  in  breeze  of  freedom,  after  it  had  floated  above  the  fields 
of  dow.n-trodden  Europe,  and  looked  down  upon  the  plains  of  ravaged 
Hindoostan ! 

Yes,  there  in  the  far  East,  where  the  Juggernaut  of  British  Power  had 
rolled  over  its  ten  thousand  victims,  father  and  son,  mother  and  babe,  all 
mingled  in  red  massacre  ? 

Who  would  have  thought,  that  these  finely-built  men,  with  their  robust 
forms,  were  other  than  freemen  ?  That  their  stout  hands  could  strike 
another  blow  than  the  blow  of  a  free  arm,  winged  by  the  impulse  of  a  free 
thought  ? 

Who,  gazing  on  this  gallant  host,  with  its  gleaming  swords  upraised  in 
the  air,  its  glittering  bayonets  shining  in  the  light,  who  would  have  thought, 
that  to  supply  this  gallant  host,  the  gaols  of  England  had  been  ransacked, 
her  convict  ships  emptied  ?  That  the  dull  slaves  of  a  German  Prince  had 
been  bought,  to  swell  the  number  of  this  chivalric  band  !  That  these  were 
the  men  who  had  crossed  the  wide  Atlantic with  what  object,  pray  ? 

To  tame  these  American  peasants,  who  dared  syllable  the  name  of  free 
dom.  To  whip  these  rebel-dogs, such  was  the  courteous  epithet,  they 

applied  to  Washington  and  Wayne — back  to  their  original  obscurity.  To 
desolate  the  fair  plains  and  pleasant  vallies  of  the  New  World,  to  stain  the 
farmer's  home  with  nis  own  blood,  shed  in  defence  of  his  hearthside. 

To  crush  with  the  hand  of  hireling  power,  the  Last  Hope  of  man's  free 
dom,  burning  on  the  last  shrine  of  the  desolated  world  ! 

Who  could  have  imagined  that  the  majestic  looking  man,  who  led  this 
host  of  hirelings  onward,  the  brave  Howe,  with  his  calm  face  and  mild  fore 
head,  was  the  Master- Assassin  of  this  tyrant  band  ? 

Or  that  the  amiable  Cornwallis,  who  rode  at  his  side,  was  the  tit  tool  foi 
such  a  work  of  Massacre  ?  Or  that  the  brave  and  chivalric  sons  of  Eng 
land's  nobility,  who  commanded  the  legions  of  the  invading  host,  that  these 
men,  gay  and  young  and  generous,  were  but  the  Executioner's  of  that  Hang 
man's  Warrant,  which  converted  all  America  into  one  vast  prison  of  con 
victed  felons — each  mountain  peak  a  scaffold  for  the  brave,  each  forest  oak 
a  gibbet  for  the  free  ? 

And  here,  while  a  day  passed,  encamped  amid  the  woods  of  Rennet's 
Square,  lay  the  British  army,  while  the  Continental  host,  spreading  along 
the  eastern  hills  of  Brandy  wine,  awaited  their  approach  without  a  fear.  The 
day  passed,  and  then  the  night,  and  then  the  morning  came 

Yet  ere  we  mingle  in  the  tumult  of  that  battle  morn,  we  will  go  to  the 
American  camp,  and  look  upon  the  heroes  in  the  shadows  of  the  twiligh< 
hour 


THE    PREACHER  OF  BRANDYWINE.  30f 


V.— THE  PREACHER  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

IT  was  the  eve  of  the  battle  of  Brandy  wine. 

1  see  before  me  now  chat  pleasant  valley,  with  its  green  meadow  stretch 
ing  away  into  the  dim  shadows  of  twilight.  The  stream,  now  dashing 
around  some  rugged  rock,  now  spreading  in  mirror-like  calmness  ;  the  hills 
on  either  side,  magnificent  with  forest  trees  ;  the  farm  houses,  looking  oul 
from  the  embrace  of  orchards,  golden  with  the  fruitage  of  the  fall  ;  the 
twilight  sky  blushing  with  the  last  kiss  of  day — all  are  there  now,  as  they 
were  on  the  10th  of  September,  1777. 

But  then,  whitening  over  the  meadow,  arose  the  snowy  tents  of  the  Con- 
tinential  encampment.  Then  arms  gleamed  from  these  hills,  and  war-steeds  v 
laved  their  limbs  in  yonder  stream.  Then,  at  the  gentle  twilight  hour,  the 
brave  men  of  the  army,  sword  and  rifle  in  hand,  gathered  around  a  Preacher, 
whose  pulpit — a  granite  rock — uprose  from  the  green  hill-side,  near  Chadd's 
Ford. 

Look  upon  him  as  he  stands  there,  his  dark  gown  floating  around  his  tall 
form,  his  eye  burning  and  his  brow  flushing  with  the  excitement  of  the 
hour.  He  is  a  man  in  the  prime  of  manhood — with  a  bold  face,  tempered 
down  to  an  expression  of  Christian  meekness — yet,  ever  and  anon,  a  war 
rior  soul  looks  out  from  that  dark  eye,  a  warrior-shout  swells  up  from  that 
heaving  bosom. 

Their  memories  are  with  me  now  ;  those  brave  men,  who,  with  God  for 
their  panoply,  shared  the  terrors  of  Trenton,  the  carnage  of  Brandywine, 
the  crust  and  cold  of  Valley  Forge  ;  their  memories  are  with  me  now,  and 
shall  be  forevermore.  They  were  brave  men,  those  Preacher-Heroes  of 
the  Revolution.  We  will  remember  them  in  hymns,  sung  oi-x  the  cold 
winter  nights,  around  the  hearthsides  of  our  homes — we  will  n<»v  forget 
th'3m  in  our  prayers.  We  will  tell  the  story  to  our  children  :  "Chii  ''•en  ! 
there  were  brave  men  in  the  Revolution — brave  men,  whose  hearts  panted 
beneath  a  preacher's  gown.  There  were  brave  men,  whose  hands  grasped 
a  Bible,  a  cross,  and  a  sword.  Brave  men,  whose  voices  were  heard  amid 
the  crash  of  legions,  and  beside  the  quivering  forms  of  the  dying.  Honest 
men  were  they,  who  forsook  pulpit  and  church  to  follow  George  Washing 
ton's  army,  as  it  left  its  bloody  footsteps  in  the  winter  snow.  Honor  to 
those  Preacher-Heroes,  who  called  upon  their  God  in  the  storm  and  heard 
his  answer  in  the  battle-shout !" 

We  will  sing  to  their  memory  in  h\mns  of  the  olden  time;  on  the 
Christmas  night  we  will  send  up  a  rude  anthem — bold  in  words,  stern  in 
thought,  such  as  they  loved  in  the  Revolution — to  the  praise  of  these  chil 
dren  of  God. 

Washington,  Wayne,  Pulaski,  Sullivan,  Greene  ;  there  all  are  grouped 
around  the  rock.  The  last  ray  of  sunset  gleams  on  their  uncovered  brows. 


THE  BATTLE    OF   BRANDYWINE. 

Far  away  spread  the  ranks  of  the  army.      Through  the  silence  of  the 

twilight  hour,  you  may  hear  that  bold  voice,  speaking  out  words  like  these. 

/     Come — we  will  go  to  church  with  the  Heroes.     Our  canopy  the  sky, 

I  the  pulpit,  yon  granite  rock,  the  congregation,  a  band  of  brave  men,  who, 

with  sword   and  rifle  in  hand,  await  the  hour  of  fight ;    our  Preacher  a 

warrior-soul,  locked  up  in  a  sacerdotal  robe.     Come — we  will  worship  with 

Washington  and  Wayne ;  we  will  kneel  upon  this  sod,  while  the  sunset 

gleams  over  ten  thousand  brows,  bared  to  the  beam  and  breeze. 

Do  you  hear  the  Preacher's  voice  swelling  through  the  twilight  air  ? 

And  first,  ere  we  listen  to  his  voice,  we  will  sing  to  his  memory,  thi§ 
rugged  hymn  of  the  olden  time — 

HYMN   TO  THE  PREACHER-HEROES. 

'Twas  on  a  sad  and  wintry  night 

When  my  Grandsire  died  ; 
Ere  his  spirit  took  its  flight, 

He  call'd  me  to  his  side. 

White  his  hair  as  winter  snow, 
His  voice  all  quiv'ring  rung — 

His  cheek  lit  with  a  sudden  glow— 
This  c.haunt  in  death  he  sung. 

Honor  to  those  men  of  old— 
The  Preachers,  brave  and  good ' 

Whose  words,  divinely  bold, 
Stirr'd  the  patriot's  blood. 

Their  pulpit  on  the  rock, 

Their  church  the  battle-plain ; 
They  dared  the  foeman's  shock, 

They  fought  among  the  slain. 

E'en  yet  methinks  I  hear 

Their  deep,  their  heart- wrung  tones, 

Rising  all  bold  and  clear 
Above  their  brothers'  groans. 

They  preached,  they  prayed  to-night, 

And  read  God's  solemn  word- 
To-morrow,  in  the  fight. 

They  grasp'd  a  freeman's  sword. 


THE   PREACHER    OF    BRANDY  WINE. 

O !  they  were  brave  and  true, 
Their  names  in  glory  shine ; 

For,  by  the  flag  of  blue. 

They  fought  at  Brandy  wine. 

At  Germanlown — aye,  tnere  : 
They  pray'd  the  columns  ON  ! 

Amen  !  to  that  bold  pray'r — 
"  GOD  AND  WASHINGTON  !" 

Honor  to  those  men  of  old, 

Who  pray'd  in  field  and  gorge— 
Who  shar'd  the  crust  and  cold 
With  the  brave,  at  Valley  Forge. 

On  the  sacramental  day 

Press  we  His  cup  agen — 
'Mid  our  sighs  and  tears  we'll  pray 

God  bless  those  martyr-men. 

Those  Preachers,  lion-soul'd, 

Heroes  of  the'r  Lcrd, 
Who,  when  the  battle  roll'd, 
Grasp'd  a  freeman's  sword. 

Grasp'd  a  freeman's  sword 

And  cheer'd  their  brothers  on— 

Lifted  up  His  word — 
By  Freedom's  gonfalon. 

Nor  sect  or  creed  we  know, 
Heroes  in  word  and  deed — 

Bloody  footprints  in  the  snow 
Mark'd  each  preacher's  creed. 

'Mid  the  snows  of  cold  December, 

Tell  your  son's  the  story  ; 
Bid  them  for  aye  remember, 

The  Hero- Preacher's  glory. 

While  glows  the  Christmas  flame  ; 

Sing  honor  to  the  good  and  bold— 
Honor  to  each  Preacher's  name — 

Tho  lion-hearted  men  of  old. 


THE    BATTLE    O*    BRANDY  WINE. 

REVOLUTIONARY    SERMON, 

Preached  on  the  eve  of  the  Battle  of  Brandywine,  (September  10,  1777,)  m  presence  of 
Washington  and  his  Army,  at  Chadd't  Ford.* 

"They  that  take  the  sword,  shall  perish  by  the  sword." 

Soldier?  and  Countrymen  : — We  have  met  this  evening  perhaps  for  th« 
last  time.  We  have  shared  the  toil  of  the  march,  the  peril  of  the  fight, 
the  dismay  of  the  retreat — alike  we  have  endured  toil  and  hunger,  the  con 
tumely  of  the  internal  foe,  the  outrage  of  the  foreign  oppressor.  We  have 
sat  night  after  night  beside  the  same  camp  fire,  shared  the  same  rough  sol 
dier's  fare  ;  we  have  together  heard  the  roll  of  the  reveille  which  called  us 
to  duty,  or  the  beat  of  the  tattoo  which  gave  the  signal  for  the  hardy  sleep  / 
of  the  soldier,  with  the  earth  for  his  bed,  the  knapsack  for  his  pillow. 

And  now,  soldiers  and  brethren,  we  have  met  in  the  peaceful  valley,  on 
the  eve  of  battle,  while  the  sunlight  is  dying  away  beyond  yonder  heights, 
the  sunlight  that  to-morrow  morn  will  glimmer  on  scenes  of  blood.  We 
have  met,  amid  the  whitening  tents  of  our  encampment — in  times  of  terror 
and  of  gloom  have  we  gathered  together — God  grant  it  may  not  be  for  the 
last  time. 

It  is  a  solemn  time.  Brethren,  does  not  the  awful  voice  of  nature,  seem 
to  echo  the  sympathies  of  this  hour  ?  The  flag  of  our  country,  droops 
heavily  from  yonder  staff — the  breeze  has  died  away  along  the  plain  of 
Chadd's  Ford — the  plain  that  spreads  before  us  glistening  in  sunlight — the 
heights  of  the  Brandywine  arise  gloomy  and  grand  beyond  the  waters  of 
yonder  stream,  and  all  nature  holds  a  pause  of  solemn  silence,  on  the  eve 
of  the  bloodshed  and  strife  of  the  morrow. 

"They  that  take  the  sword,  shall  perish  by  the  sword." 

And  have  they  not  taken  the  sword  ? 

Let  the  desolated  plain,  the  blood-soddened  valley,  the  burned  farm-house, 
the  sacked  village,  and  the  ravaged  town,  answer — let  the  whitening  bones 
of  the  butchered  farmer,  strewn  along  the  fields  of  his  homestead  answer — 
let  the  starving  mother,  with  the  babe  clinging  to  her  withered  breast,  that 
caji  afford  no  sustenance,  let  her  answer,  with  the  death-rattle  mingling  with 
the  murmuring  tones  that  mark  the  last  struggle  for  life — let  the  dying 
mother  and  her  babe  answer  ! 

It  was  but  a  day  past,  and  our  land  slept  in  the  light  of  peace.  War  was 
not  here — wrong  was  not  here.  Fraud,  and  woe,  and  misery,  and  want, 
dwelt  not  among  us.  From  the  eternal  solitude  of  the  green  woods,  arose 
the  blue  smoke  of  the  settler's  cabin,  and  golden  fields  of  corn  peered  forth 

*  This  Sermon  was  originally  published,  (before  it  was  incorporated  with  the  Lec 
tures,)  with  fictitious  names  attached,  etc.  etc.     There  is  no  doubt  that  a  sermon  was 
delivered  on  the  eve  of  the  Battle  of  Brandywine,  and  I  have  substantial  evidence  to   ./ 
prove  that  the  Preacher  was  none  other  than  HUGH  HENRY  BRECKENRIDGE,  a  distin- v 
guished  Divine,  who  afterwards  wrote  "Modern  Chivalry,"  nn  eminently  popular 
production,  and  filled  various  official  positions  with  honor  to  himself  and  his  country. 
The  Sermon  is,  I  trust,  not  altogether  unworthy  of  that  chivalric  band,  who  forsaking 
their  homes  and  churches,  found  a  home  and  church  in  the  Camp  of  Washington 


THE  PREACHER  OF  BRANDY  WINE.-          313 

from  amid  the  waste  of  the  wilderness,  and  the  glad  music  of  human  voices 
awoKe  the  silence  of  the  forest. 

Now  !  God  of  mercy,  behold  the  change  !  Under  the  shadow  of  a  pre 
text — under  the  sanctity  of  the  name  of  God,  invoking  the  Redeemer  to 
their  aid,  do  these  foreign  hirelings  slay  our  people  !  They  throng  our 
towns,  they  darken  our  plains,  and  now  they  encompass  our  posts  on  the 
lonely  plain  of  Chadd's  Ford. 

"They  that  take  the  sword,  shall  perish  by  the  sword." 

Brethren,  think  me  not  unworthy  of  belief  when  I  tell  you  that  the  doom 
of  the  Britisher  is  near  ! — Think  me  not  vain  when  I  tell  you  that  beyond 
that  cloud  that  now  enshrouds  us,  I  see  gathering,  thick  and  fast,  the  darker 
cloud,  and  the  blacker  storm,  of  a  Divine  Retribution  ! 

They  may  conquer  us  to-morrow  !  Might  and  wrong  may  prevail,  a»id 
we  may  be  driven  from  this  field — but  the  hour  of  God's  own  vengeance 
will  come  ! 

Aye,  if  in  the  vast  solitudes  of  eternal  space — if  in  the  heart  of  the  bound 
less  universe,  there  throbs  the  being  of  an  awful  God,  quick  to  avenge,  and 
sure  to  punish  guilt,  then  will  the  man  George  of  Brunswick,  called  King, 
feel  in  his  brain  and  in  his  heart,  the  vengeance  of  the  Eternal  Jehovah  ! 
A  blight  will  be  upon  his  life — a  withered  brain,  an  accursed  intellect — a 
blight  will  be  upon  his  children,  and  on  his  people.  Great  God  !  how 
dread  the  punishment ! 

A  crowded  populace,  peopling  the  dense  towns  where  the  man  of  money 
thrives,  while  the  laborer  starves ;  want  striding  among  the  people  in  all  its 
forms  of  terror ;  an  ignorant  and  God-defying  priesthood,  chuckling  o^er 
the  miseries  of  millions ;  a  proud  and  merciless  nobility,  adding  wrong  to 
wrong,  and  heaping  insult  upon  robbery  and  fraud  :  royalty  corrupt  to  the 
very  heart ;  aristocracy  rotten  to  the  core  ;  crime  and  want  linked  hand  in 
hand,  and  tempting  men  to  deeds  of  woe  and  death ;  these  are  a  part  of  the 
doom  and  retribution  that  shall  come  upon  the  English  throne  and  people. 

Soldiers — I  look  around  among  your  familiar  faces  with  a  strange  inter 
est  !  To-morrow  morning  we  will  all  go  forth  to  battle — for  need  I  tell  you, 
that  your  unworthy  minister  will  go  with  you,  invoking  God's  aid  in  the 
fight  ?  We  will  march  forth  to  battle.  Need  I  exhort  you  to  fight  the  good 
fight — to  fight  for  your  homesteads,  and  for  your  wives  and  children  ? 

My  friends,  I  might  urge  you  to  fight  by  the  galling  memories  of  British 
wrong !  Walton— I  might  tell  you  of  your  father,  butchered  in  the  silence 
of  midnight,  on  the  plains  of  Trenton :  I  might  picture  his  grey  hairs,  dab 
bled  in  blood  ;  I  might  ring  his  death-shriek  in  your  ears. 

Shelmire,  I  might  tell  you  of  a  mother  butchered,  and  a  sister  outraged- 
the  lonely  farm-house,  the  night-assault,  the  roof  in  flames,  the  shouts  of 
the  troopers  as  they  despatched  their  victims,  the  cries  for  mercy,  the  plead 
ings  of  innocence  for  pity.    I  might  paint  this  all  again,  in  the  terrible  colors 
of  vivid  reality,  if  I  thought  your  courage  needed  such  wild  excitement 
20 


314  THE  BATTLE   OF   BRA.NDYWINE. 

JBut_I  know  you  are  strong  in  the  might  of  the  Lord.  You  will  go  forth 
to  battle  to-morrow  with  light  hearts  and  determined  spirits,  though  th« 
solemn  duty,  the  duty  of  avenging  the  dead,  may  rest  heavy  on  your  souls. 

And  in  the  hour  of  battle,  when  all  around  is  darkness,  lit  by  the  lurid 
cannon-glare,  and  the  piercing  musquet-flash,  when  the  wounded  strew  the 
ground,  and  the  dead  litter  your  path,  then  remember,  soldiers,  that  God  is 
with  you.  The  Eternal  God  fights  for  you — he  rides  on  the  battle-cloud, 
he  sweeps  onward  with  the  march  of  the  hurricane  charge. — The  Awful 
and  the  Infinite  fights  for  you,  and  you  will  triumph. 

"  They  that  take  the  sword,  shall  perish  by  the  sword." 

You  have  taken  the  sword,  but  not  in  the  spirit  of  wrong  and  ravage. 
You  have  taken  the  sword  for  your  homes,  for  your  wives,  for  your  little 
ones. — You  have  taken  the  sword  for  truth,  for  justice  and  right;  and  to 
you  the  promise  is,  be  of  good  cheer,  for  your  foes  have  taken  the  sword, 
in  defiance  of  all  that  man  holds  dear — in  blasphemy  of  God — they  shall 
perish  by  the  sword. 

And  now,  brethren  and  soldiers,  I  bid  you  all  farewell.  Many  of  us  may 
fall  in  the  fight  of  to-morrow — God  rest  the  souls  of  the  fallen — many  of  us 
may  live  to  tell  the  story  of  the  fight  of  to-morrow,  and  in  the  memory  of 
all,  will  ever  rest  and  linger  the  quiet  scene  of  this  autumnal  night. 

Solemn  twilight  advances  over  the  valley ;  the  woods  on  the  opposite 
heights  fling  their  long  shadows  over  the  green  of  the  meadow  ;  around  us 
are  the  tents  of  the  Continental  host,  the  half-suppressed  bustle  of  the  camp, 
the  hurried  tramp  of  the  soldiers  to  and  fro ;  now  the  confusion,  and  now 
the  stillness  which  mark  the  eve  of  battle. 

When  we  meet  again,  may  the  long  shadows  of  twilight  be  flung  over  a 
peaceful  land. 

God  in  heaven  grant  it. 

Let  us  pray. 

PRAYER    OF  THE   REVOLUTION. 

Great  Father,  we  bow  before  thee.  We  invoke  thy  blessing — we  de 
precate  thy  wrath — we  return  thee  thanks  for  the  past — we  ask  thy  aid  for 
the  future.  For  we  are  in  times  of  trouble,  Oh,  Lord  !  and  sore  beset  by 
foes  merciless  and  unpitying  :  the  sword  gleams  over  our  land,  and  the 
dust  of  the  soil  is  dampened  by  the  blood  of  our  neighbors  and  friends. 

Oh  !  God  of  mercy,  we  pray  thy  blessing  on  the  American  arms.    Make 

^  the  man  of  our  hearts  strong  in  thy  wisdom.     Bless,  we  beseech  thee,  with 

(     renewed  life  and   strength,  our  hope  and  Thy  instrument,  even  GEORGE 

\     WASHINGTON.     Shower  thy  counsels  on  the   Honorable,  the  Continental 

Congress ;  visit  the  tents  of  our  hosts ;  comfort  the  soldier  in  his  wounds 

and  afflictions,  nerve  him  for  the  fight,  prepare  him  for  the  hour  of  death. 

And  in  the  hour  of  defeat,  oh,  God  of  hosts  !  do  thou  be  our  stay ;  and 
in  the  hour  of  triumph,  be  thou  our  guide. 


THE  DAWN    OF  THE   FIGHT.  315 

Teach  us  to  be  merciful.  Though  the  memory  ot  galling  wrongs  be  at 
our  .learts,  knocking  for  admittance,  that  they  may  fill  us  with  desires  of 
revenge,  yet  let  us,  oh,  Lord,  spare  the  vanquished,  though  they  never 
spared  us,  in  the  hour  of  butchery  and  bloodshed.  And,  in  the  hour  of 
death,  do  thou  guide  us  into  the  abode  prepared  for  the  blest ;  so  shall  we 
return  thanks  unto  thee,  through  Christ  our  Redeemer. — GOD  PROSPER  THE 
CAUSE — AMEN. 

As  the  words  of  the  Preacher  die  upon  the  air,  you  behold  those  battle 
hosts — Washington  in  their  midst,  with  uncovered  brow  and  bended  head — 
kneeling  like  children  in  the  presence  of  their  God. 

For  he  is  there,  the  Lord  of  Sabaoth,  and  like  a  smile  from  heaven,  the 
last  gleam  of  the  setting  sun  lights  up  the  Banner  of  the  Stars. 

VI.— THE    DAWN   OF  THE    FIGHT. 

IT  was  the  battle  day. — The  ELEVENTH  of  September  ! 

It  broke  in  brightness  and  beauty;  that  bloody  day  :  the  sky  was  clear 
and  serene  ;  the  perfume  of  wild  flowers  was  upon  the  air,  and  the  blue 
mists  of  autumn  hung  around  the  summit  of  the  mound-like  hills. 

The  clear  sky  arched  above,  calm  as  in  the  bygone  days  of  Halcyon 
peace,  the  wide  forests  flung  their  sea  of  leaves  all  wavingly  into  the  light — 
the  Brandy  wine,  with  its  stream  and  vallies,  smiled  in  the  face  of  the  dawn, 
nature  was  the  same  as  in  the  ancient  time,  but  man  was  changed. 

The  Fear  of  war  had  entered  the  lovely  valley.  There  was  dread  in  all 
the  homes  of  Brandywine  on  that  autumnal  morn.  The  Blacksmith  wrought 
no  more  at  his  forge,  the  farmer  leaned  wistfully  upon  the  motionless  plough, 
standing  idly  in  the  half-turned  furrow.  The  fear  of  war  had  entered  the 
lovely  valley,  and  in  the  hearts  of  its  people,  there  was  a  dark  presentiment 
Df  coming  Doom. 

Even  in  the  Quaker  Meeting  house,  standing  some  miles  away  from 
Chadd's  Ford,  the  peaceful  Friends  assembled  for  their  Spirit  Worship,  felt 
that  another  Spirit  than  that  which  stirred  their  hearts,  would  soon  claim 
bloody  adoration  in  the  holy  place. 

On  the  summit  of  a  green  and  undulating  hill,  not  more  than  half-a-mile 
distant  from  the  plain  of  Chadd's  Ford,  the  eye  of  the  traveller  is  arrested, 
even  at  this  day,  by  the  sight  of  a  giant  chesnut  tree,  marked  by  a  colossal 
trunk,  while  the  wide-branching  limbs,  with  their  exuberance  of  deep 
green-leaved  foliage,  tell  the  story  of  two  hundred  years. 

Under  this  massive  chesnut  tree,  on  that  renowned  morn,  as  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  dawn  broke  over  the  battlefield,  there  stood  a  band  of  men  in 
military  costume,  grouped  around  a  tall  and  majestic  figure. 

Within  sight  of  this  warlike  group— a  mound-shaped  hill  and  rolling  val 
ley  intervening, — lay  the  plain  of  Chadd's  Ford,  with  the  hastily-erected 
tents  of  the  American  encampment,  whitening  along  its  sward. 


316  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

There  floated  the  banner  of  the  stars,  and  there,  resting  on  their  well-tried 
arms,  stood  the  brave  soldiers  of  the  Continental  host,  casting  anxious  yet 
fearless  glances  towards  the  western  woods  which  lined  the  rivulet,  in  mo 
mentary  expectation  of  the  appearance  of  the  British  forces. 

And  while  all  was  expectation  and  suspense  in  the  valley  below,  this 
warlike  group  had  gathered  under  the  shade  of  the  ancient  chesnut  tree — a 
hurried  Council  of  war,  the  Prelude  to  the  blood-stained  toil  of  the  coming 
battle. 

And  the  man  who  stood  in  their  midst,  towering  above  them  all,  like  a 
Nobleman  whose  title  is  from  God,  let  us  look  well  upon  him.  He  con 
verses  there,  with  a  solemn  presence  about  him.  Those  men,  his  battle- 
worn  peers,  stand  awed  and  silent.  Look  at  that  form,  combining  the  sym 
metry  of  faultless  limbs,  with  a  calm  majesty  of  bearing,  that  shames  the 
Kings  of  earth  into  nothingness look  upon  that  proud  form,  which  dig 
nifies  that  military  costume  of  blue  and  buff  and  gold — examine  well  the 
outlines  of  that  face,  which  you  could  not  forget  among  ten  thousand,  that 
face,  stamped  with  the  silent  majesty  of  a  great  soul. 

Ask  the  soldier  the  name  he  shouts  in  the  vanguard  of  battle,  ask  the  dying 
patriot  the  name  he  murmurs,  when  his  voice  is  husky  with  the  flow  of 
suffocating  blood,  and  death  is  iceing  over  his  heart,  and  freezing  in  his 

veins ask  the  mother  for  the  name  she  murmurs,  when  she  presses  her 

babe  to  her  bosom  and  bids  him  syllable  a  prayer  for  the  safety  of  the  father, 
far  away,  amid  the  ranks  of  battle,  ask  History  for  that  name,  which  shall 
dwell  evermore  in  the  homes  and  hearts  of  men,  a  sound  of  blessing  and 
praise,  second  only  in  sanctity  to  the  name  of  the  Blessed  Redeemer. 

And  that  name — need  I  speak  it  ? 

Need  I  speak  it  with  the  boisterous  shout  or  wild  hurrah,  when  it  is 
spoken  in  the  still  small  voice  of  every  heart  that  now  throbs  at  the  sound 
of  the  word — the  name  of  George  Washington. 

And  as  the  sunbeams  came  bright  and  golden  through  the  foliage  of  the 
ancient  chesnut  tree,  they  shone  upon  the  calm  face  of  the  sagacious  Greene 
— the  rugged  brow  of  the  fearless  Pulaski — the  bluff,  good-humored  visage 
of  Knox — the  frank,  manly  face  of  De  Kalb — and  there  with  his  open  brow, 
his  look  of  reckless  daring,  and  the  full  brown  eye  that  never  quailed  in  its 
glance,  was  the  favorite  son  of  Pennsylvania,  her  own  hero,  dear  to  her 
history  in  many  an  oft-told  tradition,  the  theme  of  a  thousand  legends,  the 
praise  of  historian  and  bard — Mad  Antony  Wayne  ! 

Standing  beside  George  Washington,  you  behold  a  young  soldier — quite 
a  boy — with  a  light  and  well-proportioned  form,  mingling  the  outlines  of 
youthful  beauty  with  the  robust  vigor  of  manly  strength.  His  face  was 
free,  daring,  chivalric  in  expression,  his  blue  eye  was  clear  and  sparkling  in 
its  glance,  and  his  sand-hued  hair  fell  back  in  careless  locks  from  a  bold  and 
lofty  brow. 

And  who  was  he  ? 


THE    DAWN    OF   THE   FIGHT.  317 

Not  a  soldier  in  the  American  camp,  from  the  green  mountain  boy  of  the 
north,  to  the  daring  Ranger  of  the  Santee,  but  knows  his  name  and  has  hit 
story  at  his  tongue's  end,  familiar  as  a  household  word. 

And  why  cast  he  friends  and  rank  and  hereditary  right  aside,  why  tear 
ing  himself  from  the  bosom  of  a  young  and  beautiful  wife,  did  he  cross  the 
Atlantic  in  peril  and  in  danger,  pursued  by  the  storm  and  surrounded  by  the 
ships  of  the  British  fleet — why  did  he  spring  so  glad  I  v  upon  the  American 
shore,  why  did  he  fling  wealth,  rank,  life,  at  the  feet  of  George  Washing 
ton,  pledging  honor  and  soul  in  the  American  cause  ? 

Find  your  answer  in  the  history  of  France — find  your  answer  in  the 
history  of  her  Revolutions — the  Revolution  of  the  Reign  of  Terror,  and  the 
Revolution  of  the  Three  days — find  your  answer  in  the  history  of  the 
world  for  the  last  sixty  years — in  every  line,  you  will  behold  beaming  forth 
that  high  resolve,  that  generous  daring,  that  nobility  of  soul,  which  in  life 
made  his  name  a  blessing,  and  in  death  hangs  like  a  glory  over  his  memory 
— the  name — the  memory  of  La  Fayette. 

Matter  of  deep  import  occupied  this  hurried  council  of  war.  In  short 
and  emphatic  words,  Washington  stated  the  position  of  the  Continental 
army.  The  main  body  were  encamped  near  Chadd's  Ford — the  Pennsyl 
vania  militia  under  Armstrong  two  miles  below  ;  the  Right  Wing  under  Sul 
livan  two  miles  above. 

This  Washington  stated  was  the  position  of  the  army.  He  looked  for 
the  attempt  of  the  enemy  to  pass  the  Brandywine,  either  at  Chadd's  or 
Brinton's  Ford. 

He  had  it  is  true,  received  information  that  a  portion  of  the  British 
would  attack  him  in  front,  while  the  main  body  crossing  the  Brandywine 
some  miles  above,  would  turn  his  right  flank  and  take  him  by  surprise. 

But  the  country — so  Washington  said  in  a  tone  of  emphatic  scorn — 
swarmed  with  traitors  and  tories  ;  he  could  not  rely  upon  this  information. 

While  the  chiefs  were  yet  in  council,  all  doubt  was  solved  by  the  arrival 
of  a  scout,  who  announced  the  approach  of  Kniphausen  towards  Chadd's 
Ford. 

An  hour  passed. 

Standing  on  the  embankment,  which  grim  with  cannon,  frowned  above 
Chadd's  Ford,  General  Wayne  beheld  the  approach  of  the  Hessians  along 
the  opposite  hills. 

The  word  of  command  rang  from  his  lips,  and  then  the  cannon  gave 
forth  their  thunder,  and  the  smoke  of  battle  for  the  first  time,  darkened  the 
valley  of  the  Brandywine. 

Standing  on  the  embankment,  Mad  Antony  Wayne  beheld  the  valley  be 
low  shrouded  in  smoke,  he  heard  the  cries  of  wounded  and  the  dying  ! 

He  saw  the  brave  riflemen,  headed  by  Maxwell  and  Porterfield,  dart 
down  from  the  fortified  knoll,  hurry  across  the  meadow,  until  the  green  tree* 
overlooking  the  stream,  received  them  in  their  thick  shade. 


818  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

Then  came  the  fierce  and  deadly  contest,  between  these  riflemen  and  tne 
Yager  bands  of  the  Hessian  army  ! 

Then  came  the  moment,  when  standing  in  mid  stream,  they  poured  the 
rifle-blaze  into  each  other's  faces,  when  they  fought  foot  to  foot,  ajuMiand 
to  hand,  when  the  death-groan  bubbled  up  to  the  water's  surface,  as  the 
mangled  victim  was  trodden  down  into  the  yellow  sands  of  the  rivulet's  bed. 

Then  with  a  shout  of  joy,  gallant  Mad  Anthony  beheld  the  Hessians  driven 
back,  while  the  Banner  of  the  Stars  rose  gloriously  among  the  clouds  of 
battle,  and  then 

But  why  should  I  picture  the  doubt,  the  anxiety,  the  awful  suspense  of 
that  morning,  when  Washington  looking  every  moment  for  the  attack  of 
the  British  on  his  front,  was  yet  fearful  that  they  would  turn  his  right  wing 
and  take  him  by  surprise  ? 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that  after  hours  of  suspense,  one  o'clock  came,  and  with 
that  hour  came  the  thunderbolt. 

A  wounded  scout  brought  intelligence  of  the  approach  of  the  British,  in 
full  force,  above  the  heights  of  Birmingham  Meeting  House,  toward  the 
Right  Wing  of  the  Continental  Army.  The  wounded  scout  gave  this  dread 
message,  and  then  bit  the  dust,  a  dead  man. 

Come  with  me  now,  come  with  me  through  the  lanes  of  Brandy  wine ; 
let  us  emerge  from  these  thick  woods,  let  us  look  upon  the  hills  around 
Birmingham  Meeting  House. 

VII.— THE  QUAKER  TEMPLE. 

IT  is  now  two  o'clock. 

The  afternoon  sun  is  shining  over  a  lovely  landscape  diversified  with  hills, 
now  clad  with  thick  and  shady  forests,  now  spreading  in  green  pasturages, 
now  blooming  in  cultivated  farms. 

Let  us  ascend  ypnder  hill,  rising  far  above  the  plain — yon  hill  to  the 
north  east  crowded  with  a  thick  forest,  and  sloping  gently  to  the  south,  its 
Dare  and  grassy  bosom  melting  away  into  a  luxuriant  valley. 

We  ascend  this  hill,  we  sit  beneath  the  shade  of  yonder  oak,  we  look 
^   forth  upon  the  smiling  heavens  above,  the  lovely  land  beneath.     For  ten 
wide  miles,  that  map  of  beauty  lies  open  to  our  gaze. 

Yonder  toward  the  south  arise  a  ravage  of  undulating  hills,  sweeping 
toward  the  east,  in  plain  and  meadow — gently  ascending  in  the  west  until 
they  terminate  in  the  heights  of  Brandy  wine. 

And  there,  far  to  the  west,  a  glimpse  of  the  Brandywine  comes  laughing 
into  light — it  is  seen  but  a  moment  a  sheet  of  rippling  water,  among  green 
boughs,  and  then  it  is  gone  ! 

Gaze  upon  yonder  hill,  in  the  south  east.  It  rises  in  a  gradual  ascent. 
On  its  summit  thrown  forward  into  the  sun  by  a  deep  background  of  woods 
there  stands  a  small  one-storied  fabric,  with  steep  and  shingled  roof — with 
walls  of  dark  grey  stone 


THE    QUAKER    TEMPLE.  319 

This  unpretending  structure  arises  in  one  corner  of  a  small  enclosure, 
0f  dark  green  grass,  varied  by  gently  rising  mounds,  and  bounded  by  a  wall 
of  dark  grey  stone. 

This  fabric  of  stone  rests  in  the  red  sunlight  quiet  as  a  tomb.  Over  its 
ancient  roof,  over  its  moss  covered  walls,  stream  the  warm  sunbeams  And 
that  solitary  tree  standing  in  the  centre  of  the  graveyard — for  that  enclosed 
space  is  a  graveyard,  although  no  tombstones  whiten  over  its  green  mounds 
or  marble  pillars  tower  into  light — that  solitary  tree  quivers  in  the  breeze, 
and  basks  in  the  afternoon  sun. 

That  is  indeed  the  quiet  Quaker  graveyard — yon  simple  fabric,  one  story 
high,  rude  in  architecture,  contracted  in  its  form  is  the  peaceful  Quaker 
meeting  house  of  Birmingham. 

It  will  be  a  meeting  house  indeed  ere  the  setting  of  yon  sun,  where 
Death  and  blood  and  woe  shall  meet ;  where  carnage  shall  raise  his  fiery 
hymn  of  cries  and  groans,  where  mercy  shall  enter  but  to  droop  and  die. 

There,  in  that  rude  temple,  long  years  ago,  was  spoken  the  Prophecy 
which  now  claims  its  terrible  fulfilment. 

Now  let  us  look  upon  the  land  and  sky.  Let  us  look  forth  from  the  top 
of  this  hill — it  is  called  Osborne's  hill — and  survey  the  glorious  land 
scape. 

The  sky  is  very  clear  above  us.  Clear,  serene  and  glassy,  A  single 
cloud  hovers  in  the  centre  of  tiie  sky,  a  single  snow  white  cloud  hovers 
there  in  the  deep  azure,  receiving  on  its  breast,  the  full  warmth  of  the 
Autumnal  sun. 

It  hovers  there  like  a  holy  dove  of  peace,  sent  of  God  ! 

Look  to  the  south.  Over  hill  and  plain  and  valley  look.  Observe  those 
.hin  light  wreaths  of  smoke,  arising  from  the  green  of  the  forest  some  two 
or  three  miles  to  the  southwest — how  gracefully  these  spiral  columns  curl 
upward  and  melt  away  into  the  deep  azure.  Upward  and  away  they  wind, 
away — away — until  they  are  lost  in  the  heavens. 

That  snowy  smoke  is  hovering  over  the  plain  of  Chadd's  Ford,  where 
Washington  and  Wayne  are  now  awaiting  the  approacli  of  Kniphausen 
across  the  Brandywine. 

Change  your  view,  a  mile  or  two  eastward — you  behold  a  cloud  of  smoke, 
hovering  over  the  camp  fires  of  the  reserve  under  General  Greene  ;  and 
yonder  from  the  hills  north  of  Chadd's  Ford,  the  music  of  Sullivan's 
Division  comes  bursting  over  wood  and  plain. 

We  will  look  eastward  of  the  meeting  house.  A  sight  as  lovely  as  ever 
burst  on  mortal  eye.  There  are  plains  glowing  with  the  rich  hues  of  cul 
tivation — plains  divided  by  fences  and  dotted  with  cottages — here  a  massive 
hill,  there  an  ancient  farm  house,  and  far  beyond  peaceful  mansions,  reposing 
in  the  shadow  of  twilight  woods 

Look  !  Along  these  plains  and  fields,  the  affrighted  people  of  the  valley 
are  fleeing  as  though  some  bloodhound  tracked  their  footsteps.  They  flee 


320  THE   BATTLE   OF    BRANDY  WINE. 

the  valley  of  the  Quaker  Temple,  as  though  death  was  in  the  breeze.  <i««<v 
lation  in  the  sunlight. 

Ask  you  why  they  flee  ?  Look  to  the  west  and  to  the  north  west. — 
what  see  you  there  ? 

A  cloud  of  dust  rises  over  the  woods — it  gathers  volumes — larger  and 
wider — darker  and  blacker — it  darkens  the  western  sky — it  throws  its  dusky 
shade  far  over  the  verdure  of  the  woodlands. 

Look  again — what  see  you  now  ? 

There  is  the  same  cloud  of  dust,  but  nothing  more  meets  the  vision.  Hear 
you  nothing  ? 

Yes.  There  is  a  dull  deadened  sound  like  the  tramp  of  war  steeds — now 
it  gathers  volume  like  the  distant  moan  of  the  ocean-storm — now  it  murmurs 
like  the  thunder  rolling  away,  amid  the  ravines  of  far-off  mountains — and 
now  ! 

By  the  soul  of  Mad  Anthony  it  stirs  one's  blood  ! 

And  now  there  is  a  merry  peal  bursting  all  along  the  woods — drum,  fiifc, 
bugle,  all  intermingling — and  now  arises  that  ominous  sound — the  clank  of 
the  sword  by  the  warrior's  side,  and  all  the  rattle  and  the  clang  of  arms — 
suppressed  and  dim  and  distant,  but  terrible  to  hear ! 

Look  again.     See  you  nothing  ? 

Yes  !  Look  to  the  north  and  to  the  west.  Rank  after  rank,  file  after 
file,  they  burst  from  the  woods — banners  wave  and  bayonets  gleam  !  In 
one  magnificent  array  of  battle,  they  burst  from  the  woods,  column  after 
column — legion  after  legion.  On  their  burnished  arms — on  their  waving 
plumes  shines  and  flaunts  the  golden  sun. 

Look — far  through  the  woods  and  over  the  fields  !  You  see  nothing  but 
gleaming  bayonets  and  gaudy  red-coats— you  behold  nothing  but  bands  of 
marching  men,  but  troops  of  mounted  soldiers.  The  fields  are  red  with 
British  uniforms — and  there  and  there 

Do  you  see  that  gorgeous  banner — do  you  see  its  emblems — do  you  mark 
its  colors  of  blood — do  you  see 

Oh,  Blessed  Redeemer,  Saviour  of  the  world,  is  that  thy  cross  ?  Is  that 
hy  cross  waving  on  that  blood-red  banner  ? 

Thy  Cross,  that  emblem  of  peace  and  truth  anu  mercy,  emblem  of  thv 
sufferings,  thy  death,  thy  resurrection,  emblem  of  Gethemane  and  of  (Ja*- 
vary  !  thy  cross  waves  there,  an  emblem  of  HIDEOUS  MURDER  ! 

Look^.  The  blood  of  the  Nations  drips  from  that  flag!  Look,  it  is 
stained  with  the  blood  of  the  Scot,  the  Irishman,  RED  INDIAN,  and  the  dusKf 
Hindoo — it  is  stained  with  the  blood  of  all  the  earth  !  The  gnosts  01  mil 
lions,  from  a  thousand  battlefields  arise  and  curse  that  flag  forever  in  the 
sight  of  God  !  And  now — ah,  now  »t  comes  on  *Q  *h°  valley  of  the  Bran 
dy  wine — it  comes  on  its  work  of  murder  and  blood  ! 

And  there  waving  in  the  sun,  that  cross  so  darkly,  so  foully  dishonored, 
courts  the  free  air  and  does  not  blush  for  its  crimes  t 


WASHINGTON    COMES    TO   BATTLE.  331 


VIII.— WASHINGTON    COME?   TO 

AGAIN  turn  we  to  the  South.     What  see  you  there  ? 

There  is  the  gleam  of  arms,  but  it  is   faint,  it  is  faatu  anu  lar  away 
Hark  !     Do  you  hear  that  sound  ?     Is  it  thunder,  is  it  tr>e  throbDhig  of 
some  fierce  earthquake,  tearing  its  way  through  the  vitals  of  the  earth  ? 

No  !  No  !     The  legions  are  moving. 

Washington  has  scented  the  prey — doubt  is  over.  Glory  to  the  god 
of  battles — glory  !  The  Battle  is  now  certain.  There,  there,  hidden  by 
woods  and  hills,  advances  the  Banner  of  the  New  World — the  Labarum  of 
the  Rights  of  man  !  There,  the  boy-general  La  Fayette  gaily  smiles  and 
waves  his  maiden  sword — there,  there  white-uniformed  Pulaski  growls  his 
battle  cry — there  calm-visaged  Greene  is  calculating  chances,  and  there 
Wayne — Mad  Anthony  Wayne  ?  Hah  ?  What  does  he  now  ?  Listen  to 
his  cannon— they  speak  out  over  three  miles  of  forest!  That  is  the  wel 
come  of  Mad  Anthony  to  Kniphausen,  as  he  attempts  to  cross  the  Bran- 
dywine  ! 

And  on  they  come,  the  American  legions — over  hill  and  thro'  wood.x 
a  long  lonely  dell,  band  after  band,  battalion  crowding  on  battallion — and  now 
they  move  in  columns  !     How  the  roar  of  the  cataract  deepens  and  swells  ! 
The  earth  trembles — all  nature  gives  signs  of  the  coming  contest. 

And  over  all,  over  the  lonely  valley,  over  the  hosts  advancing  to  the  fight, 
there  sits  a  hideous  Phantom,  with  the  head  of  a  fiend,  the  wings  of  a  vul 
ture  !  Yes,  yes,  there,  unseen  and  unknown,  in  mid-air,  hovers  the  Fiend 
of  Carnage  !  He  spreads  his  dusky  wings  with  joy  !  ^  He  will  have  a  rare 
feast  ere  sundown — a  dainty  feast !  The  young,  the  gallant,  the  brave  are 
all  to  sodden  your  graveyard  with  their  blood. 

Near  the  foot  of  this  hill,  down  in  the  hollow  yonder,  a  clear  spring  of 
cold  water  shines  in  the  sun.  Is  it  not  beautiful,  that  spring  of  cold  water, 
with  its  border  of  wild  flowers,  its  sands  yellow  as  gold  ? 

Ere  the  setting  of  yonder  sun,  that  spring  will  be  red  and  rank  and  foul 
with  the  gore  of  a  thousand  hearts  ! 

For  it  lays  in  the  lap  of  the  valley,  and  all  the  blood  shed  upon  yon  hill, 
will  pour  into  it,  in  little  rills  of  crimson  red  ' 

And  on,  and  on,  over  hill  and  valley,  on  and  on  advances  the  Banner  of 
the  New  World. 

— Glory  to  the  God  of  battle,  how  fair  that  banner  looks  in  the  green  woods, 
how  beautiful  it  breaks  on  the  eye,  when  toying  with  the  gentle  breezes,  it 
pours  its  starry  rays  among  the  forest  trees,  or  mirrors  its  beauty  in  some 
quiet  brook  ? 

But  when  it  emerges  from  the  green  woods,  when  tossing  on  the  winds 
of  battle,  it  seeks  the  open  plain,  and  its  belts  of  scarlet  and  snow  flo»* 


322  THE   BATTLE    OF    BRANDY  WINE. 

grandly  in  the  air,  and  its  stars  flash  back  the  light  of  the  sun— ah,  then  it 
is  a  glorious  sight  1  Then  let  this  prayer  arise  from  every  American  heart ! 

Be  thou  enthroned  above  that  banner,  God  of  Battles  !  Guard  it  with 
thy  lightnings,  fan  it  with  thy  breezes,  avenge  it  with  thy  thunders  ! 

May  it  ever  advance  as  now,  in  a  cause  holy  as  thy  light !  May  the 
hand  that  would  dare  pluck  one  star  from  its  glory,  wither — may  treason 
fall  palsied  beneath  its  shade  ! 

But  should  it  ever  advance  in  the  cause  of  a  Tyrant,  should  its  folds  evet 
float  over  a  nation  of  slaves,  then  crush  Thou  that  banner  in  the  dust — then 
scatter  its  fragments  to  space  and  night,  then,  then  take  back  to  Heaven 
thy  Stars  ! 

But  may  it  wave  on  and  on — may  it  advance  over  this  broad  continent — 

freedom's  pillar  of  cloud  by  day — freedom's  pillar  of  fire  by  night until 

there  shall  be  but  one  nation,  from  the  ice-wilderness  of  the  north,  to  the 
waters  of  the  Southern  Sea — a  nation  of  Americans  and  of  brothers  ! 

IX.— THE  HOUR  OF  BATTLE. 

IT  was  now  four  o'clock — the  hour  of  battle. 

It  is  the  awful  moment,  when  twenty-two  thousand  human  beings,  gazing 
in  each  other's  faces  from  opposite  hills,  await  the  signal  word  of  fight. 

Along  the  brow  of  yonder  high  hill — Osborne's  hill,  and  down  on  eithei 
side,  into  the  valley  on  one  hand,  the  plain  on  the  other,  sweeps  the  for 
midable  front  of  the  British  army,  with  the  glittering  line  of  bayonets  above 
their  heads,  another  glittering  line  in  their  rear,  while  the  arms  of  the  Bri 
gade  in  Reserve  glimmer  still  farther  back,  among  the  woods  on  the  hill 
top and  yet  farther  on,  a  Regiment  of  stout  Englishers  await  the  bidding 

of  their  masters,  to  advance  or  retire,  as  the  fate  of  the  day  may  decree. 

There  are  long  lines  of  glittering  cannon  pointed  toward  the  opposite 
hills,  there  are  infantry,  artillery  and  cavalry,  a  band  of  twelve  thousand 
men,  all  waiting  tor  the  signal  word  of  fight. 

On  that  clear  space  of  green  hill-side,  between  the  Regiment  of  horse  and 
the  Brigade  in  Reserve,  General  Howe  and  Lord  Cornwallis  rein  their 
steeds,  encircled  by  the  chieftains  of  the  British  host. 

And  from  the  trees  along  the  opposite  hills,  pour  the  hurried  bands  of  the 
Continental  Army,  at  the  very  moment  that  the  British  General  is  about  to 
give  the  word  of  battle,  which  will  send  an  hundred  Souls  to  Eternity! 

There  comes  the  Right  Division  of  the  army  under  the  brave  S-illivan, 
the  unfortunate  Stephens,  the  gallant  Stirling.  Tnev  take  '.r/eir  position  in 
hurry  and  disorder.  They  file  along  the  hills  in  their  coats  of  blue  and 
buff,  they  throw  their  rifle  bands  into  the  Meeting  House.  With  stout 
hands,  with  firm  hearts,  this  division  of  'he  Continental  host  confront  the 
formidable  army,  whose  array  flasnes  from  vender  hill. 

There  mounted  on  his  grey  war-steed,  Sir  William  Howe  looked  fot   a 


THE   HOUR    OF   BATTLE.  323 

moment  over  he  ranks  of  his  armv.  over  then*  forest  of  swords  and  bayonets 
and  banners,  and  then  slowly  unsheathing  his  sword,  he  waved  it  in  the 
light. 

That  was  the  signal  of  battle. 

An  hundred  bugles  hailed  that  sign  with  their  maddening  Deals,  an  hun 
dred  drums  rolled  forth  their  deafening  thunder — Hark  !  The  hill  ouivers 
as  though  an  earthquake  shook  its  grassy  bosom  ! 

Along  the  British  line  streams  the  blaze  of  musquetry,  the  air  is  rilled 
with  the  roar  of  cannon  ! 

Look  down  into  the  valley  below  !  There  all  is  shrouded  in  snow-wnue 
smoke — snow-white  that  heaves  upward  in  those  vast  and  rolling  folds. 

A  moment  passes  ! — 

That  cloud  is  swept  aside  by  a  breeze  from  the  American  army.  That 
breeze  bears  the  groans  of  dying  men  to  the  very  ears  of  Howe  ! 

That  parting  cloud  lays  bare  the  awful  panorama  of  death — wounded 
men  falling  to  the  earth — death-stricken  soldiers  leaping  in  the  air,  with  the 
blood  streaming  from  their  shattered  limbs. 

Where  solid  ranks  but  a  moment  stood,  now  are  heaps  of  ghastly  dead  ! 

Another  moment  passes,  and  the  voice  of  Sullivan  is  heard  along  the 
Continental  line.  From  the  southern  heights  there  is  a  deafening  report, 
and  then  a  blaze  of  flame  bursts  over  the  British  ranks  ! 

The  piercing  musquet  shot,  the  sharp  crack  of  the  rifle,  the  roar  of  the 
cannon,  these  all  went  up  to  heaven,  and  then  all  was  wrapt  in  smoke  on 
the  southern  hills. 

Then  the  white  pall  was  lifted  once  again  !  Hah  !  The  Quaker  Meet 
ing  House  has  become  a  fortress  !  From  every  window,  nook  and  cranny 
peals  the  rifle-blaze,  the  death-shot  ! 

And  then  a  thousand  cries  and  groans  commingling  in  one  infernal  chorus, 
go  shrieking  up  to  yon  sky  of  azure,  that  smiles  in  mockery  of  this  scene 
of  murder ! — And  yonder,  far  in  the  west,  the  waters  of  the  Brandy  wine 
still  laugh  into  light  for  a  moment,  and  then  roll  calmly  on. 

Another  moment  passes  !  That  loud  shout  yelling  above  the  chorus  of 
death — what  means  it  ?  The  order  rings  along  the  British  line — Charge, 
charge  for  King  George  ! 

The  Continental  columns  give  back  the  shout  with  redoubled  echo, 
Charge,  charge  in  the  Name  of  God,  in  the  name  of  Washington  ! 

And  then  while  the  smoke  gathers  like  a  black  vault  overhead — like  a 
black  vault  built  by  demon  hands,  sweeping  from  either  side,  at  the  top  of 
their  horses  speed  the  troopers  of  the  armies  meet,  sword  to  sword,  with 
banners  mingling  and  with  bugle  pealing,  fighting  for  life  they  meet.  There 
is  a  crash,  a  fierce  recoil,  and  another  charge  ! 

Now  the  Red  Cross  of  St.  George,  and  the  Starry  Banner  of  the  New 
World,  mingle  their  folds  together,  tossing  and  plunging  to  the  impulse  ot 
the  battle  breeze. 


324  THE  BATTLE  OF  3RANDYWINE. 

Hurrah  !  The  fever  of  blood  is  in  its  worst  and  wildest  delirium  !  Now 
are  human  faces  trampled  deep  into  the  blood-drenched  sod,  now  are  glazing 
eyes  torn  out  by  bayonet  thrusts,  now  are  quivering  hearts  rent  from  the 
Btill-living  bodies  of  the  foemen !  ^ 

Hurrah  ! 

How  gallantly  the  Continentals  meet  the  brunt  of  strife.  Rushing  for 
ward  on  horse  and  foot,  under  that  Starry  Banner,  they  seek  the  British 
foemen,  they  pour  the  death-hail  into  their  ranks,  they  throttle  them  with 
their  weaponless  hands. 

X.— THE   POETRY   OF   BATTLE. 

TALK  not  to  me  of  the  Poetry  of  Love,  or  the  Sublimity  of  nature  in  re 
pose,  or  the  divine  beauty  of  Religion  ! 

Here  is  poetry,  sublimity,  religion !  Here  are  twenty  thousand  men 
tearing  each  other's  limbs  to  fragments,  putting  out  eyes,  crushing  skulls, 
rending  hearts  and  trampling  the  faces  of  the  dying,  deeper  down — 
POETRY  ! 

Here  are  horses  running  wild,  their  saddles  riderless,  their  nostrils 
streaming  blood,  here  are  wounded  men  gnashing  their  teeth  as  they  en 
deavor  to  crawl  from  beneath  the  horses'  feet,  here  are  a  thousand  little 
pools  of  blood,  filling  the  hollows  which  the  hoofs  have  made,  or  coursing 
down  the  ruts  of  the  cannon  wheels — SUBLIMITY  ! 

Here  are  twelve  thousand  British  hirelings,  seeking  the  throats  of  yon 
small  band  of  freemen,  and  hewing  them  down  in  gory  murder,  because, 
oh  yes,  because  they  will  not  pay  tax  to  a  good-humored  Idiot,  who  even 
now,  sits  in  his  royal  halls  of  Windsor,  three  thousand  miles  away,  with 
his  vacant  eye  and  hanging  lip,  catching  flies  upon  the  wall,  or  picking 
threads  from  his  royal  robe — yes,  yes,  there  he  sits,  crouching  among  the 
folds  of  gorgeous  tapestry,  this  MASTER  ASSASSIN,  while  his  trained  mur 
derers  advance  upon  the  hills  of  Brandy  wine — there  sits  the  King  by  right 
Divine,  the  Head  of  the  Church,  the  British  Pope  ! — RELIGION  ! 

How  do  you  like  this  POETRY,  this  SUBLIMITY,  this  RELIGION  of  George 

the  Third  ? 

v  And  now,  when  you  have  taken  one  long  look  at  the  Idiot-King,  sitting 
yonder  in  his  royal  halls  of  Windsor,  look  there  through  the  clouds  of  battle, 
and  behold  that  warrior-form,  mounted  on  a  steed  of  iron-grey  ! 

That  warrior-form  rising  above  the  ranks  of  battle,  clad  in  the  uniform 

of  blue  and  buff  and  gold that  warrior-form,  with  the  calm  blue  eye 

kindling  with  such  fire,  with  the  broad  chest  heaving  with  such  emotion — 
with  the  stout  arm  lifting  the  sword  on  high,  pointing  the  way  to  the  field 
of  death — that  form  looming  there  in  such  grandeur,  through  the  intervals 
af  battle-smoke 


LORD  PERCY'S  DREAM.  335 

Is  it  the  form  of  some  awful  spirit,  sent  from  on  high  to  guide  the  course 
of  the  fight  ?     Is  it  the  form  of  an  earthly  King  ? 
Tel',  me  the  name  of  that  warrior-form  ? 

Have  your  answer  in  the  battle-cry,  which  swells  from  a  thousand  hearts 
"  WASHINGTON  ?" 

XI.— LORD  PERCY'S  DREAM. 

IT  was  at  this  moment — the  darkest  of  the  conflict — that  Lord  Cornwallis, 
surveying  the  tide  of  a  battle,  turned  to  a  young  officer  who  had  been  de 
tained  for  a  moment  by  his  side. 

"  Colonel  Percy — "  said  he — "  The  rebels  have  entrenched  themselves 
in  yonder  graveyard.  Would  that  I  had  a  brave  man,  who  would  dare  to 
plant  the  royal  standard  on  those  dark  grey  walls  !" 

"  I  will  take  it,"  said  the  young  officer,  as  he  gave  his  golden-hued  steed 
the  spur,  "  I  will  take  it,  or  die  !" 

And  now  as  with  his  manly  form,  attired  in  a  uniform  of  dark  green 
velvet,  he  speeds  down  the  hill,  followed  by  a  band  of  thirty  bold  troopers, 
his  long  dark  hair  flying  back  from  his  pale  face  ;  let  me  tell  you  the  strange 
story  of  his  life. 

Tradition  relates,  that  accompanying  the  British  host,  urged  by  some 
wild  spirit  of  adventure,  was  a  young  and  gallant  spirit — Lord  Percy,  a  near 
connection  of  the  proud  Duke  of  Northumberland. 

He  was  young,  gallant,  handsome,  but  since  the  landing  of  the  troops  on 
the  Chesapeake,  his  gay  companions  had  often  noted  a  frown  of  dark 
thought  shadowing  his  features,  a  sudden  gloom  working  over  his  pale  face, 
and  a  wild  unearthly  glare  in  his  full  dark  eye. 

The  cause  had  been  asked,  but  no  answer  given.  Again  and  again,  yet 
still  no  answer. 

At  last,  Lord  Cornwallis  asked  young  Percy  what  melancholy  feelings 
were  these,  which  darkened  his  features  with  such  a  strange  gloom.  With 
the  manner  of  a  fated  man,  the  young  lord  gave  his  answer. 

(This  scene  occurred  not  ten  minutes  before  the  battle,  when  Cornwallis 
was  urging  his  way  thro'  the  thick  wood,  that  clothed  the  summit  oi  Os- 
borne's  Hill.) 

He  had  left  the  dissipations  of  the  English  Court,  for  the  wilds  of  the 
New  World,  at  the  request  of  the  aged  Eari,  his  father.  That  earl,  when  a 
young  man,  had  wandered  in  the  wilds  of  South  Carolina — he  had  tricked 
a  beautiful  girl,  in  whose  dark  cheek  there  glowed  the  blood  of  an  Indian 
King — he  had  tricked  this  beautiful  girl  into  a  sham  marriage,  and  then  de 
serted  her,  for  his  noble  bride  in  England. 

And  now,  after  long  years  had  passed,  this  aged  Man,  this  proud  Earl, 
had  hurried  his  legitimate  son  to  the  wilds  of  America,  with  the  charge  to 


326  THE   BATTLE   OF   BRANDY  WINE. 

seek  out  the  illegitimate  child  of  the  Indian  girl  of  Carolina,  and  place  a 
pacquet  in  his  hands. 

This,  in  plain  words,  was  the  object  of  Lord  Percy's  journey  to  America. 

And  as  to  the  gloom  on  his  brow,  the  deathly  light  in  his  eye  ?  This 
was  the  answer  which  Percy  gave  to  Cornwallis 

A  presentiment  of  sudden  death — he  said — was  on  his  mind.  It  had 
haunted  his  brain,  from  the  very  first  moment  hie  had  trodden  the  American 
shores.  It  had  crept  like  a  Phantom  beside  him,  in  broad  daylight,  it  had 
brooded  with  images  of  horror,  over  the  calm  hours  devoted  to  sleep.  It 
was  ever  with  him,  beside  his  bed  and  at  his  board,  in  camp  and  bouviac, 
that  dark  presentiment  of  sudden  death. 

Whence  came  this  presentiment?  was  the  query  of  Lord  Cornwallis. 

^  One  night  when  crossing  the  Atlantic,  one  night  when  the  storm  was 
abroad  and  the  thunderbolt  came  crashing  down  the  mainmast,  then,  my 
Lord,  then  I  had  a  dream  !  In  that  dream  I  beheld  a  lovely  valley,  a  rustic 
fabric,  too  rude  for  a  lordly  church  and  a  quiet  graveyard,  without  a  tomb 
stone  or  marble  pillar !  And  over  that  valley,  and  around  that  graveyard, 
the  tide  of  battle  raged,  for  it  was  a  battle  fierce  and  bloody  ! 

"  And  therein  that  graveyard,  I  beheld  a  form  thrown  over  a  grassy  mound, 
with  the  life-blood  welling  from  the  death-wound  near  the  heart !  That 
form  was  mine  !  Yes,  yes,  I  saw  the  eyes  glaring  upon  the  blue  heavens, 
with  the  glassy  stare  of  death  !  That  form  was  mine  !" 

"  Pshaw  !  This  is  mere  folly,"  exclaimed  Lord  Cornwallis,  as  he  en 
deavored  to  shake  off  the  impression  which  the  young  Lord's  earnest  words 
had  produced — "  This  is  but  a  vain  fancy  " 

As  he  spoke  they  emerged  from  the  thick  wood,  they  reined  their  horses 

upon  the  summit  of  Osborne's  hill the  valley  of  the  meeting-house  lay 

at  their  feet. 

At  this  moment  Lord  Percy  raised  his  face — at  a  glance  he  beheld  the 
glorious  landscape — a  horrible  agony  distorted  his  countenance — 

"  MY  DREAM  !  MY  DREAM  !"  he  shrieked,  rising  in  his  stirrups,  and 
spreading  forth  his  hands. 

And  then  with  straining  eyes  he  looked  over  the  landscape. 

That  single  small  white  cloud  hovered  there  in  the  blue  heavens  !  It 
hovered  in  the  blue  sky  right  over  the  Meeting  House  !  Hill  and  plain  and 
valley  lay  basking  in  the  sun.  Afar  were  seen  pleasant  farm  houses  em 
bosomed  in  trees,  delightful  strips  of  green  meadow,  and  then  came  the  blue 
distance  where  earth  and  sky  melted  into  ONE  ! 

But  not  on  the  distance  looked  Lord  Percy — not  on  the  blue  sky,  or  glad 
fields,  or  luxuriant  orchards. 

His  straining  eye  «aw  but  the  valley  at  his  feet,  the  Quaker  temple,  the 
quiet  graveyard  ! 

"  My  dream  !  My  dream  !"  he  shrieked — "  This  is  the  valley  of  my 
dream — and  yonder  is  the  graveyard  !  I  am  fated  to  die  upon  this  field !" 


LORD  PERCY'S  DREAM.  327 

No  words  could  shake  this  belief.  Seeking  his  brother  officers,  Lori 
Percy  bestowed  some  token  of  remembrance  on  each  of  them,  gave  hii 
dearest  friend  a  last  word  of  farewell  for  his  Betrothed,  now  far  away  in  the. 
lofty  halls  of  a  ducal  palace,  and  then,  with  a  pale  cheek  and  flashing  eye, 
rode  forth  to  battle. 

And  now  look  at  him,  as  with  his  dark  hair  waving  on  the  wind,  he 
Dears  the  graveyard  wall. 

He  raised  his  form  in  the  stirrups,  he  cast  one  flashing  glance  over  his 
trooper  band,  robed  in  forest  green,  and  then  his  eye  was  fixed  upon  the 
graveyard 

All  was  silent  there  !  Not  a  shot  from  the  windows — not  a  rifle-blaze 
from  the  dark  grey  wall.  There  was  that  dark  grey  wall  rising  some  thirty 
paces  distant — there  were  the  green  mounds,  softened  by  the  rays  of  the 
sun,  pouring  from  that  parted  cloud,  and  there  back  in  the  graveyard,  under 
the  shelter  of  trees,  there  is  ranged  a  warrior-band,  clad  like  his  own  in 
forest  green,  and  with  the  form  of  a  proud  chieftain,  mounted  on  a  gold- 
hued  steed,  towering  in  their  midst. 

That  chieftain  was  Captain  Waldemar,  a  brave  partizan  leader  from  the 
wild  hills  of  the  Santee.  His  bronzed  cheek,  his  long  dark  hair,  his  well- 
proportioned  form,  his  keen  dark  eye,  all  mark  his  relationship  to  the 
Indian  girl  of  Carolina. 

Little  does  Lord  Percy  think,  as  he  rides  madly  toward  that  graveyard, 
that  there  that  half-Indian  brother  is  waiting  for  him,  with  bullet  and 
sword. 

On  with  the  impulse  of  an  avalanche  sweep  the  British  troopers — behind 
them  follow  the  infantry  with  fixed  bayonets — before  them  is  nothing  but 
the  peaceful  graveyard  sward. 

They  reach  the  wall,  their  horses  are  rearing  for  the  leap — 

When  lo  !     What  means  this  miracle  ? 

Starting  from  the  very  earth,  a  long  line  of  bold  backwoodsmen  start  up 
from  behind  the  wall,  their  rifles  poised  at  the  shoulder,  and  that  aim  of 
death  securely  taken  ! 

A  sheet  of  fire  gleamed  over  the  graveyard  wall  pouring  full  into  the  faces 
of  the  British  soldiers — clouds  of  pale  blue  smoke  went  rolling  up  to  heaven, 
and  as  they  took  their  way  aloft,  this  horrid  sight  was  seen. 

Where  thirty  bold  troopers,  but  a  moment  ago  rushed  forward,  breasting 
the  graveyard  wall,  now  were  seen,  thirty  mad  war-horses,  rearing  wildly 
aloft,  and  trampling  their  riders'  faces  in  the  dust. 

Lord  Percy  was  left  alone  with  the  British  Banner  in  his  hand,  hia 
horse's  hoofs  upon  the  wall  ! 

"  On  Britons,  on,"  shrieked  Percy,  turning  in  wild  haste  to  the  advancing 
columns  of  infantry — "  On  and  revenge  your  comrades  !" 

At  the  same  moment,  from  the  farther  extreme  of  the  graveyard,  was 
heard  the  deep-toned  shout — 


328  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

"  Riders  of  Santee  upon  these  British  robhers  !  Upon  these  British  rob 
bers,  who  redden  our  soil  with  the  blood  of  its  children  !" 

And  then  the  British  infantry,  and  then  other  bands  of  British  troopers 
came  pouring  over  that  fatal  wall,  upon  the  graveyard  sward ! 

Then  crashing  on — one  fierce  bolt  of  battle — that  band  of  Rangers  burst  i 
upon  the  British  bayonets ;  there  was  crossing  of  swords  and  waving  of  ! 
banners — steeds  mingled  with  steeds — green  uniforms  with  green  uniforms,; 
and  scarlet  with  green — now  right  now  left — now  backward  now  forward, 
whirled  the  fiery  whirlpool  of  that  fight — and  there,  seen  clearly  and  dis 
tinctly  amid  the  bloody  turmoil  of  that  battle,  two  forms  clad  in  green  and 
gold,  mounted  on  golden-hued  steeds,  with  a  gallant  band  of  sworn  brothers 
all  around  them,  fought  their  way  to  each  other's  hearts  ! 

Percy  and  the  dark-visaged  Partizan  Waldemar,  met  in  battle ! 

Unknown  to  each  other,  the  Brothers  crossed  their  swords— the  child  of 
the  proud  English  Countess,  and  the  son  of  the  wild  Indian  girl !  Both 
mounted  on  golden-hued  steeds,  both  attired  in  dark  green  velvet,  that 
strange  resemblance  of  brotherhood  stamped  on  each  face,  they  met  in 
deadly  combat ! 

Say  was  not  this  Fate  ? 

Their  swords  crossed  rose  and  fell — there  was  a  rapid  sound  of  clashing 
steel,  and  then  with  his  brother's  sword  driven  through  his  heart,  Lord 
Percy  fell ! 

The  Indian  girl  was  avenged. 

A  wild  whirl  of  the  fight  separated  Captain  Waldemar  from  his  brother 
but  when  the  battle  was  past,  in  the  deep  silence  of  that  night,  which 
brooded  over  the  battle-slain,  this  son  of  the  Indian  woman  sought  out  the 
corse  of  the  English  Lord  from  the  heaps  of  dead.  Bending  slowly  down 
by  the  light  of  the  moon,  he  perused  the  pale  face  of  Lord  Percy ;  he  tore 
the  pacquet  from  his  bosom,  he  read  the  testimonial  of  his  mother's  mar 
riage,  he  read  the  offers  of  favor  and  patronage,  from  the  old  Earl  to  the  In 
dian  woman's  son. 

Then  he  knew  that  he  held  the  body  of  a  dead  brother  in  his  arms. 
Then  he  tore  those  offers  of  favor  into  rags,  but  placed  the  marriage  testi 
monial  close  to  his  heart. 

Then  he — that  half  Indian  man,  in  whose  veins  flowed  the  blood  of  a 
ong  line  of  Indian  kings  mingling  with  the  royal  blood  of  England,  he  with 
ears  in  his  dark  eyes,  scooped  a  grave  for  his  brother,  and  buried  him 
here. 

And  that  fair  young  maiden  gazing  from  the  window  of  that  ducal  palace, 
far  away  yonder  in  the  English  Isle,  that  fair  young  maiden,  whose  long 
hair  sweeps  her  rose-bud  cheeks  with  locks  of  midnight  darkness — look 
how  her  deep  dark  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  western  sky  ? 

She  awaits  the  return  of  her  betrothed,  the  gallant  Lord  Percy.  She 
grazes  to  the  west,  and  counts  the  hours  that  will  elapse  ere  his  coming  I 


THE   LAST   HOUR.  329 

4h  sne  will  count  the  weeks  and  the  months  and  the  years,  and  yet  he  will 
not  come. 

He  will  not  come,  for  deep  under  the  blood-drenched  earth  of  Brandy- 
wine,  he  the  young,  the  gallant,  the  brave,  rots  and  moulders  into  dust. 

And  she  shall  wait  there  many  a  weary  hour,  while  her  dark  eye,  dila 
ting  with  expectation,  is  fixed  upon  that  western  sky  !  Ah  that  eye  shall 
grow  dim,  that  cheek  will  pale,  and  yet  her  betrothed  will  not  come  ! 

Ah  while  her  eye  gleams,  while  her  heart  throbs  as  if  to  greet  his  coming 
footstep,  the  graveworm  is  feasting  upon  his  manly  brow  ! 

And  there,  in  that  lonely  graveyard  of  Brandy  wine,  without  a  stone  to 
mark  his  last  resting  place,  unhonored  and  unwept,  the  gallant  Percy  moul 
ders  into  dust ! 

XII.— THE  LAST  HOUR. 

MEANWHILE  the  terror  of  the  fight  darkened  around  the  Quaker  Temple. 

There  is  a  moment  of  blood  and  horror.  They  fight  each  man  of  them 
as  though  the  issue  of  the  field  depended  upon  his  separate  hand  and  blow 
»— but  in  vain,  in  vain  ! 

The  enemy  swarm  from  the  opposite  hills,  they  rush  forward  in  mighty 
columns  superior  in  force,  superior  in  arms  to  the  brave  Continential  Yeo 
men. 

Again  they  advance  to  the  charge — again  they  breast  the  foe — they  drive 
him  back — they  leap  upon  his  bayonets — they  turn  the  tide  of  fight  by  one 
gallant  effort — but  now  !  They  waver,  they  fall  back,  Sullivan  beholds  his 
Right  Wing  in  confusion — but  why  need  I  pursue  the  dark  history  further  ? 

Why  need  I  tell  how  Washington  came  hurrying  on  to  the  rescue  of  his 
army,  with  the  reserve  under  General  Greene  ?  How  all  his  efforts  of 
superhuman  courage  were  in  vain  ?  How  Pulaski  thundered  into  the  Bri 
tish  ranks,  and  with  his  white-coated  troopers  at  his  back,  hewed  a  way  for 
himself  thro'  that  fiery  battle,  leaving  piles  of  dead  men  on  either  side  ? 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that  overpowered  by  the  superior  force  of  the  enemy, 
the  continental  army  retreated  toward  the  south.  Suffice  it  to  say,  that  the 
British  bought  the  mere  possession  of  the  field,  with  a  good  round  treasure 
of  men  and  blood — That  if  Washington  could  not  conquer  the  enemy,  he 
at  all  events  saved  his  army  and  crippled  his  foe. 

And  there,  as  the  American  army  swept  toward  Chester,  there  rushing 
upon  the  very  bayonets  of  the  pursuing  enemy  was  that  gallant  boy  of 
nineteen,  imploring  the  disheartened  fugitives  to  make  one  effort  more,  to 
strike  yet  another  blow  ! 

It  was  in  vain  !  While  his  warm  arm  was  yet  raised  on  high,  while  his 
voice  yet  arose  in  the  shout  for  Washington  and  freedom,  La  Fayette  wa« 
wounded  near  the  ancle  by  a  musket  ball.  The  blood  of  old  France 
dowed  warmly  in  the  veins  of  that  gallant  boy  ! 

That  glorious  French  blood  of  Charlemagne,  of  Conde,  of  Navarre, 
21 


iHE   BATTLE    OF   BRANDY  WINE. 

that  glorious  French  blood,  which  in  aftertime,  making  one  wide  channel 
of  the  whole  earth,  flowed  on  in  a  mighty  river — on  to  triumph,  bearing 
Napoleon  on  its  gory  waves  ! 

Ah  there  was  warm  and  generous  blood  flowing  in  the  veins  of  that  gal 
lant  boy  of  France  ! 

Oh  tell  me  you,  who  are  always  ready  with  the  sneer,  when  a  young 
man  tries  to  do  some  great  deed,  tries  with  a  sincere  heart  and  steady  hand 
to  carve  himself  a  name  upon  the  battlements  of  time — oh  tell  me,  have  you 
no  sneer  for  this  boy  at  Brandywine?  This  boy  La  Fayette,  who  left  the 
repose  of  that  young  wife's  bosom,  to  fight  the  battles  of  a  strange  people 
in  a  far  land  ? 

There  was  a  General  Howe,  my  friends,  who  invited  some  ladies  to 
take  supper  one  night  in  Philadelphia,  with  this  boy  La  Fayette,  and  then 
sent  his  troops  out  to  Barren  Hill,  to  trap  him  and  bring  him  in, — but  my 
friends,  that  night  the  ladies  ate  their  viands  cold,  for  Sir  William  failed  to 
— "  CATCH  THE  BOY." 

There  was  a  Lord  Cornwallis,  who  having  encircled  the  French  Mar 
quis  with  his  troops,  there  in  the  forests  of  Virginia,  wrote  boastingly  home 
to  his  king,  that  he  might  soon  expect  a  raree-show,  for  he  was  determined 
to  "  CATCH  THIS  BOY,"  and  send  him  home  to  London.  The  king  had 
his  raree-show,  but  it  was  the  news  of  my  Lord  Cornwallis's  surrender  at 
Yorktown,  but  as  for  La  Fayette,  he  never  saw  him,  for  my  Lord  Corn 
wallis  failed  to  "  Catch  the  Boy." 

XIII.— PULASKI. 

IT  was  at  the  battle  of  Brandywine  that  Count  Pulaski  appeared  in  all 
his  glory. 

As  he  rode,  charging  there,  into  the  thickest  of  the  battle,  he  was  a  war 
rior  to  look  upon  but  once,  and  never  forget. 

Mounted  on  a  large  black  horse,  whose  strength  and  beauty  of  shape 
made  you  forget  the  plainness  of  his  caparison,  Pulaski  himself,  with  a  form 
six  feet  in  height,  massive  chest  and  limbs  of  iron,  was  attired  in  a  white 
uniform,  that  was  seen  from  afar,  relieved  by  the  black  clouds  of  battle. 
His  face,  grim  with  the  scars  of  Poland,  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  had 
seen  much  trouble,  endured  much  wrong.  It  was  stamped  with  an  expres 
sion  of  abiding  melancholy.  Bronzed  in  hue,  lighted  by  large  dark  eyes, 
with  the  lip  darkened  by  a  thick  moustache,  his  throat  and  chin  were  cov 
ered  with  a  heavy  beard,  while  his  hair  fell  in  raven  masses,  from  beneath 
his  trooper's  cap,  shielded  with  a  ridge  of  glittering  steel.  His  hair  and 
beard  were  of  the  same  hue. 

The  sword  that  hung  by  his  side,  fashioned  of  tempered  steel,  with  a  hilt 
of  iron,  was  one  that  a  warrior  alone  could  lift. 

it  was  in  this  array  he  rode  to  battle,  followed  by  a  band  of  three  dun- 


PULASKI.  j»f 

drcd  men,  whose  faces,  burnt  with  the  scorching  of  a  tropical  sun.  <x  nard- 
ened  by  northern  snows,  bore  the  scars  of  many  a  battle.  They  were 
mostly  Europeans  ;  some  Germans,  some  Polanders,  some  deserters  from 
the  British  army.  These  were  the  men  to  fight.  To  be  taken  by  the 
British  would  be  death,  and  death  on  the  gibbet ;  therefore,  they  fought 
their  best  and  fought  to  the  last  gasp,  rather  than  mutter  a  word  about 
**  quarter." 

When  they  charged  it  was  as  one  man,  their  three  hundred  swards  flash 
ing  over  their  heads,  against  the  clouds  of  battle.  They  came  down  upon 
the  enemy  in  terrible  silence,  without  a  word  spoken,  not  even  a  whisper. 
You  could  hear  the  tramp  of  their  steeds,  you  could  hear  the  rattling  of  their 
scabbards,  but  that  was  all. 

Yet  when  they  closed  with  the  British,  you  could  hear  a  noise  like  the 
echo  of  a  hundred  hammers,  beating  the  hot  iron  on  the  anvil.  You  could 
see  Pulaski  himself,  riding  yonder  in  his  white  uniform,  his  black  steed 
rearing  aloft,  as  turning  his  head  over  his  shoulder  he  spoke  to  his  men  : 

"  FORWARTS,  BRUDERN,  FORWARTS  !" 

It  was  but  broken  German,  yet  they  understood  it,  those  three  hundred 
men  of  sunburnt  face,  wounds  and  gashes.  With  one  burst  they  crashed 
upon  the  enemy.  For  a  few  moments  they  used  their  swords,  and  then 
the  ground  was  covered  with  dead,  while  the  living  enemy  scattered  in  panic 
before  their  path. 

It  was  on  this  battle-day  of  Brandywine  that  the  Count  was  in  his  glory. 
He  understood  but  little  English,  so  he  spake  what  he  had  to  say  with  the 
edge  of  his  sword.  It  was  a  severe  Lexicon,  but  the  British  soon  learned 
to  read  it,  and  to  know  it,  and  fear  it.  All  over  the  field,  from  yonder 
Quaker  meeting-house,  away  to  the  top  of  Osborne's  Hill,  the  soldiers  of 
the  enemy  saw  Pulaski  come,  and  learned  to  know  his  name  by  heart. 

That  white  uniform,  that  bronzed  visage,  that  black  horse  with  burning 
eye  and  quivering  nostrils,  they  knew  the  warrior  well ;  they  trembled 
when  they  heard  him  say : 

"  Forwarts,  Briidern,  forwarts  !" 

It  was  in  the  Retreat  of  Brandywine,  that  the  Polander  was  most  terrible. 
It  was  when  the  men  of  Sullivan — badly  armed,  poorly  fed,  shabbily  clad — 
gave  way,  step  by  step,  before  the  overwhelming  discipline  of  the  British 
host,  that  Pulaski  looked  like  a  battle-fiend,  mounted  on  his  demon-steed. 

His  cap  had  fallen  from  his  brow.  His  bared  head  shone  in  an  occa 
sional  sunbeam,  or  grew  crimson  with  a  flash  from  the  cannon  or  rifle.  His 
white  uniform  was  rent  and  stained  ;  in  fact,  from  head  to  foot,  he  was 
covered  with  dust  and  blood. 

Still  his  right  arm  was  free — still  it  rose  there,  executing  a  British  hire 
ling  when  it  fell — still  his  voice  was  heard,  hoarse  and  husky,  but  strong  ii« 
it*  every  tone — "  Forwarts,  Briidern  !" 

He  beheld  the  division  of  Sullivan  retreating  from  the  field ;  he  saw  ihe 


332  THE  BATTLE    OF   BRANDY  WINE. 

British  yonder,  stripping  their  coats  from  their  backs  in  the  madness  of 
pursuit.  He  looked  to  the  South,  for  Washington,  who,  with  the  reserve, 
under  Greene,  was  hurrying  to  the  rescue,  but  the  American  Chief  was 
not  in  view. 

Then  Pulaski  was  convulsed  with  rage. 

He  rode  madly  upon  the  bayonets  of  the  pursuing  British,  his  sword 
gathering  victim  after  victim  ;  even  there,  in  front  of  their  whole  army,  he 
flung  his  steed  across  the  path  of  the  retreating  Americans,  he  besought 
them,  in  broken  English,  to  turn,  to  make  one  more  effort ;  he  shouted  in 
hoarse  tones  that  the  day  was  not  yet  lost  ! 

They  did  not  understand  his  words,  but  the  tones  in  which  he  spoke 
thrilled  their  blood 

That  picture,  too,  standing  out  from  the  clouds  of  battle — a  warrior,  con 
vulsed  with  passion,  covered  with  blood,  leaning  over  the  neck  of  his  steed, 
while  his  eyes  seemed  turned  to  fire,  and  the  muscles  of  his  bronzed  face, 
writhed  like  serpents — that  picture,  I  say,  filled  many  a  heart  with  new 
courage,  nerved  many  a  wounded  arm  for  the  fight  again. 

Those  retreating  men  turned,  they  faced  the  enemy  again — like  grey 
hounds  at  bay  before  the  wolf — they  sprang  upon  the  necks  of  the  foe,  and 
bore  them  down  by  one  desperate  charge. 

It  was  at  this  moment  that  Washington  came  rushing  on  once  more  to 
ths  battle. 

Those  people  know  but  little  of  the  American  General  who  call  him  the 
American  FABIUS,  that  is,  a  general  compounded  of  prudence  and  caution, 
with  but  a  spark  of  enterprise.  American  Fabius !  When  you  will  show 
mo  that  the  Roman  Fabius  had  a  heart  of  fire,  nerves  of  steel,  a  soul  that 
hungered  for  the  charge,  an  enterprise  that  rushed  from  the  wilds  like  the 
Skippack,  upon  an  army  like  the  British  at  Germantown,  or  started  from 
ictt  and  snow,  like  that  which  lay  across  the  Delaware,  upon  hordes  like 
those  of  the  Hessians,  at  Trenton — then  I  will  lower  Washington  down 
into  Fabius.  This  comparison  of  our  heroes,  with  the  barbarian  demi-gods 
of  Rome,  only  illustrates  the  poverty  of  the  mind  that  makes  it. 

Compare  Brutus,  the  ASSASSIN  of  his  friend,  with  Washington,  the  Sa 
viour  of  the  People !  Cicero,  the  opponent  of  Cataline,  with  Henry,  the 
Champion  of  a  Continent !  What  beggary  of  thought !  Let  us  learn  to 
be  a  little  independent,  to  know  our  great  men,  as  they  were,  not  by  com 
parison  wiih  the  barbarian  heroes  of  old  Rome. 

Let  us  learn  that  Washington  was  no  negative  thing,  but  all  chivalry  and 
genius. 

It  was  in  the  battle  of  Brandywine  that  this  truth  was  made  plain.  He 
came  rushing  on  to  battle.  He  beheld  his  men  hewn  down  by  the  British ; 
he  heard  them  shriek  his  name,  and  regardless  of  his  personal  safety,  he 
rushed  to  join  them. 

Ves,  it  was  in  the  dread  havoc  of  that  retreat  that  Washington,  rushing 


PULASKI.  333 

forward  into  the  very  centre  of  the  melee,  was  entangled  in  the  enemy's 
troops,  on  the  top  of  a  high  hill,  south-west  of  the  Meeting  House,  while 
PulasKi  was  sweeping  on  with  his  grim  smile,  to  have  one  more  bout  with 
the  eager  red  coats. 

Washington  was  in  terrible  danger — his  troops  were  rushing  to  the  south 
— the  British  troopers  came  sweeping  up  the  hill  and  around  him  —  while 
Pulaski,  on  a  hill  some  hundred  yards  distant,  was  scattering  a  parting 
blessing  among  the  hordes  of  Hanover. 

It  was  a  glorious  prize,  this  MISTER  Washington,  in  the  heart  of  the 
British  army. 

Suddenly  the  Polander  turned — his  eye  caught  the  sight  of  the  iron  grey 
and  his  rider.  He  turned  to  his  troopers  ;  his  whiskered  lip  wreathed  with 
a  grim  smile — he  waved  his  sword — he  pointed  to  the  iron  grey  and  its 
rider. 

There  was  but  one  moment : 

With  one  impulse  that  iron  band  wheeled  their  war  horses,  and  then  a 
dark  body,  solid  and  compact  was  speeding  over  the  valley  like  a  thunder 
bolt  torn  from  the  earth — three  hundred  swords  rose  glittering  in  a  faint 
glimpse  of  sunlight — and  in  front  of  the  avalanche,  with  his  form  raised  to 
its  full  height,  a  dark  frown  on  his  brow,  a  fierce  smile  on  his  lip,  rode 
Pulaski.  Like  a  spirit  roused  into  life  by  the  thunderbolt,  he  rode — his 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  iron  grey  and  its  rider — his  band  had  but  one 
look,  one  will,  one  shout  for — WASHINGTON  ! 

The  British  troops  had  encircled  the  American  leader — already  they  felt 
secure  of  their  prey — already  the  head  of  that  traitor,  Washington,  seemed 
to  yawn  above  the  gates  of  London. 

But  that  trembling  of  the  earth  in  the  valley,  yonder.      What  means  it  ? 

That  terrible  beating  of  hoofs,  what  does  it  portend  ? 

That  ominous  silence — and  now  that  shout — not  of  words  nor  of  names, 
but  that  half  yell,  half  hurrah,  which  shrieks  from  the  Iron  Men,  as  they 
scent  their  prey  ?  What  means  it  all  ? 

Pulaski  is  on  our  track  !    The  terror  of  the  British  army  is  in  our  wake  ! 

And  on  he  came — he  and  his  gallant  band.  A  moment  and  he  had  swept 
'wer  the  Britishers — crushed — mangled,  dead  and  dying  they  strewed  the 
green  sod — he  had  passed  over  the  hill,  he  had  passed  the  form  of  Wash 
ington. 

Another  moment !  And  the  iron  band  had  wheeled — back  in  the  same 
career  of  death  they  came  !  Routed,  defeated,  crushed,  the  red  coats  flee 
from  the  hill,  while  the  iron  band  sweep  round  the  form  of  George  Wash 
ington — they  encircle  him  with  their  forms  of  oak,  their  swords  of  steel — 
the  shout  of  his  name  shrieks  through  the  air,  and  away  to  the  American 
best  they  bear  him  in  all  a  soldier's  battle  joy. 

tt  was  at  Savannah,  that  night  came  down  upon  Pulaski. 


334  THE    BATTLE    OF    BRANDYWINE. 

Yes,  »  see  him  now,  under  the  gloom  of  night,  riding  forward  toward* 
yonder  ramparts,  his  black  steed  rearing  aloft,  while  two  hundred  of  his 
iron  men  follow  at  his  back. 

Right  on,  neither  looking  to  right  or  left,  he  rides,  his  eye  fixed  upon  the 
cannon  of  the  British,  his  sword  gleaming  over  his  head. 

For  the  last  time,  they  heard  that  war  cry  — 

"  Forwarts,  Brudern,  forwarts  !" 

Then  they  saw  that  black  horse  plunging  forward,  his  forefeet  resting  on 
the  cannon  of  the  enemy,  while  his  warrior-rider  arose  in  all  the  pride  of 
his  form,  his  face  bathed  in  a  flush  of  red  light. 

That  flash  once  gone,  they  saw  Pulaski  no  more.  But  they  found  him, 
yes,  beneath  the  enemy's  cannon,  crushed  by  the  same  gun  that  killed  his 
steed — yes,  they  found  them,  the  horse  and  rider,  resting  together  in  death, 
that  noble  face  glaring  in  the  midnight  sky  with  glassy  eyes. 

So  in  his  glory  he  died.  He  died  while  America  and  Poland  were  yet 
in  chains.  He  died,  in  the  stout  hope,  that  both  would  one  day,  be  free. 
With  regard  to  America,  his  hope  has  been  fulfilled,  but  Poland 

Tell  me,  shall  not  the  day  come,  when  yonder  monument — erected  by 
those  warm  Southern  hearts,  near  Savannah — will  yield  up  its  dead  ? 

For  Poland  will  be  free  at  last,  as  sure  as  God  is  just,  as  sure  as  he  gov 
erns  the  Universe.  Then,  when  re-created  Poland  rears  her  Eagle  aloft 
again,  among  the  banners  of  nations,  will  her  children  come  to  Savannah, 
to  gather  up  the  ashes  of  their  hero,  and  bear  him  home,  with  the  chaunt 
of  priests,  with  the  thunder  of  cannon,  with  the  tears  of  millions,  even  as 
repentant  France  bore  home  her  own  Napoleon. 

Yes,  the  day  is  coming,  when  Kosciusko  and  Pulaski  will  sleep  side  by 
side,  beneath  the  soil  of  RE-CREATED  POLAND. 

XIV.— WASHINGTON'S    LAST   CHARGE    AT   BRANDYWINE. 

THEY  tell  us  that  he  was  cold,  calm,  passionless ;  a  heart  of  ice  and  a 
face  of  marble. 

Such  is  the  impression  which  certain  men,  claiming  the  title  of  Philoso 
pher  and  Historian,  have  scattered  to  the  world,  concerning  our  own  Wash 
ington. 

They  compare  him  with  the  great  man  of  France.  Yes,  they  say  Napo 
leon  was  a  man  of  genius,  but  Washington  a  man  of  talent.  Napoleon  was 
all  fire,  energy,  sublimity ;  Washington  was  a  very  good  man,  it  is  true,  but 
cold,  calculating,  common-place. 

While  they  tell  the  mass  of  the  people  that  Washington  was  a  saint, 
nay,  almost  a  demi-god,  they  draw  a  curtain  over  his  heart,  they  hide  from 
us,  under  piles  of  big  words  and  empty  phrases,  WASHINGTON  THE 
MAN. 

You  may  take  the  demi-god  if  you  like,  and  vapor  away  whole  volumes 


WASHINGTON'S   LAST    CHARGE   AT   BRANDY  WINE.          335 

of  verbose  admiration  on  a  shadow,  but  for  my  part,  give  oie  Washington 
die  Man. 

He  was  a  Man.  The  blood  that  flowed  in  his  veins,  was  no  Greenland 
current  of  half-melted  ice,  but  the  warm  blood  of  the  South  ;  fiery  as  its  sun, 
impetuous  as  its  rivers.  His  was  the  undying  love  for  a  friend  ;  his,  the 
unfathomable  scorn  for  a  mean  enemy  ;  his,  the  inexpressible  indignation 
when  the  spirit  of  party — that  crawling  thing,  half-snake,  half-ape — began 
to  bite  his  heel. 

I  like  to  look  at  Washington  the  Man.  Nay,  even  at  Washington  the 
Boy,  dressed  in  plain  backwoodsman's  shirt  and  moccasins,  struggling  for 
his  life,  yonder  on  the  raft,  tossed  to  and  fro  by  the  waves  and  ice  of 
Alleghany  river. 

Or  at  Washington  the  young  General,  sitting  in  his  camp  at  Cambridge, 
the  map  of  the  New  World  before  him,  as  sword  by  his  side,  and  pen  in 
hand,  he  planned  the  conquest  of  the  Continent. 

Or  yet  again,  I  love  to  behold  Washington  the  Despised  Rebel,  sitting  so 
calm  and  serene,  among  those  wintry  hills  of  Valley  Forge,  while  the 
Pestilence  thins  his  camp  and  Treason  plots  its  schemes  for  his  ruin  in 
Congress.  Yes,  I  love  to  look  upon  him,  even  as  he  receives  the  letter  an 
nouncing  the  Cabal,  which  has  been  formed  by  dishonest  and  ambitious 
men,  for  his  destruction  ;  I  see  the  scorn  flush  his  cheek  and  fire  his  eye  ; 
I  hear  the  words  of  indignation  ring  from  his  lips  ;  as  I  look,  his  broad 
rhest  heaves,  his  clenched  hand  grasps  his  sword. 

And  yet  in  a  moment,  he  is  calm  a^ain  ;  he  has  subdued  his  feelings  of 
indignation,  not  because  they  are  unjust,  but  from  the  sublime  reason  that 
the  Cause  in  which  he  is  engaged  is  too  high,  too  holy,  for  any  impulse  of 
personal  vengeance. 

Here  is  the  great  key  to  Washington's  heart  and  character.  He  was  ? 
Man  of  strong  passions  and  warm  blood,  yet  he  crushed  these  passions 
end  subdued  this  fiery  blood,  in  order  to  accomplish  the  Deliverance  of  his 
Country.  He  fervently  believed  that  he  was  called  by  God  to  Deliver  the 
New  World. — This  belief  was  in  fact,  the  atmosphere  of  all  his  actions  ; 
it  moulded  the  entire  man  anew,  and  prepared  the  Virginia  Planter,  the  Pro 
vincial  Colonel,  for  the  great  work  of  a  Deliverer. 

They  tell  n,r  that  he  was  never  known  to  smile.  And  yet  there  never 
breathed  a  man,  whose  heart  bounded  more  freely  at  the  song  and  jest,  than 
his.  But  there  was  a  cause  for  the  deep  solemnity,  which  veiled  his  face 
when  he  appeared  in  public.  The  image  of  his  Country  bleeding  on  her 
thousand  hills,  under  the  footsteps  of  British  Tyranny,  was  ever  before 
him,  calling  as  with  the  voice  of  a  ghost,  upon  him,  her  Champion  and 
Saviour. 

After  the  Revolution,  there  were  as  substantial  and  important  reasons  ioj 
his  solemnity  of  look  and  presence  as  before. 

The  country  which  he  had  redeemed,  w^°   toru   by  the  fangs  of  party- 


336  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDVWINE. 

spirit  The  wolves  of  faction,  who  had  lain  somewhat  stilled  and  subdued 
during  the  war,  came  out  from  their  dens  as  soon  as  the  day  broke  over 
the  long  night,  and  howled  their  watch-words  in  the  ear  of  Washington  and 
around  the  Ark  of  the  Country's  Freedom. 

How  to  crush  these  creatures,  without  endangering  that  Ark,  or  embroil 
ing  the  land  in  a  civil  war — this  was  the  thought  that  always  shadowed, 
with  deep  solemnity,  sometimes  gloom,  the  countenance  of  Washington,  the 
President. 

It  is  a  bitter  thought  to  me  that  the  heart  of  this  great,  this  good,  this 
warm-hearted  man,  was  as  much  torn  and  pained  during  his  Presidential 
career,  by  the  war  of  opposing  factions,  as  it  was  in  the  Revolution  by  his 
contest  with  a  British  foe. 

To  him  there  never  came  an  hour  of  rest.  His  anxiety  for  his  country 
followed  him  to  Mount  Vernon,  and  ended  only  with  his  last  breath.  Too 
pure  for  a  party-man,  soaring  far  above  the  atmosphere  of  faction,  he  only 
held  one  name,  one  party  dear  to  his  heart — the  name  and  party  of  the 
AMERICAN  PEOPLE. 

In  order  to  reveal  a  new  page  in  this  man's  character  and  history,  let  us 
look  upon  him  in  the  hour  of  battle  and  defeat.  Let  us  pierce  the  Dattle- 
mists  of  Brandy  wine,  and  gaze  upon  him  at  the  head  of  his  legions. 

"  PULASKI  !" 

The  noble  countenance  of  the  brave  Pole  stood  out  in  strong  relief  from 
the  white  smoke  of  battle.  That  massive  brow,  «rr  .,.un'ed  by  the  dark 
fur  cap  and  darker  plume,  the  aquiline  nose,  the  li;  concealed  by  a  thick 
moustache,  and  the  full  square  chin,  the  long  black  hair,  sweeping  to  the 
shoulders — this  marked  profile  was  drawn  in  bold  relief,  upon  the  curtain 
of  the  battle-smoke.  An  expression  of  deep  sadness  stamped  the  face  of 
the  hero. 

44 1  was  thinking  of  Poland  !"  he  exclaimed,  in  broken  accents,  as  he 
heard  his  name  pronounced  by  Washington. 

44  Yes,"  said  Washington,  with  a  deep  solemnity  of  tone,  "  Poland  has 
many  wrongs  to  avenge  !  But  God  lives  in  Heaven,  yonder" — he  pointed 
upward  with  his  sword — "  and  he  will  right  the  innocent  at  last !" 

44  He  will  !"  echoed  the -Pole,  as  his  gleaming  eye  reaching  beyond  time 
and  space  seemed  to  behold  this  glorious  spectacle — Poland  free,  the  cross 
shining  serenely  over  her  age-worn  shrines,  the  light  of  peace  glowing  ID 
her  million  homes. 

44  Pulaski,"  said  Washington,  "  look  yonder  !" 

The  Polander  followed  with  his  eye  the  gesture  of  Washington's  sword 
Gazing  down  the  hill,  he  beheld  the  last  hope  of  the  Continental  Army  em 
bosomed  among  British  bayonets  ;  he  saw  the  wreck  of  Sullivan's  ngh; 
wing  yielding  slowly  before  the  invader,  yet  fighting  for  every  inch  ol 
fround.  He  beheld  the  reserve  under  Greene,  locked  in  one  solid  mass 
fares,  hands,  musquets,  swords,  all  turned  to  the  foe  ;  an  island  of  heroes 


WASHINGTON'S   LAST   CHARGE    AT  BRANDYWINE.        337 

encircled  by  a  sea  of  British  hirelings.  The  Royal  Army  extended  far 
over  the  fields  to  the  foot  of  Osbourne's  hill ;  the  Red  Cross  banner  waved 
over  the  walls  of  the  Quaker  Temple.  Far  to  the  South,  scattered  bands 
of  Continentals  were  hurrying  from  the  fields,  some  bearing  their  wounded 
comrades,  some  grasping  broken  arms,  some  dragging  their  shattered  forms 
slowly  along.  Still  that  brave  reserve  of  Greene,  that  wreck  of  Sullivan's 
right  wing,  fought  around  the  banner  of  the  Stars,  while  the  Red  Cross  flag 
glared  in  their  faces  from  every  side. 

The  declining  sun  shone  over  the  fight,  lighting  up  the  battle-clouds  with 
its  terrible  glow.  It  was  now  five  o'clock.  But  one  hour  since  the  con 
flict  began,  and  yet  a  thousand  souls  had  gone  from  this  field  of  blood  up  to 
the  throne  of  God  ! 

The  sky  is  blue  and  smiling  yonder,  as  you  see  it  through  the  rifted 
clouds — look  there  upon  the  serene  azure,  and  tell  me  !  ^  Do  you  not  bi2- 
hold  the  ghosts  of  the  dead,  an  awful  and  shadowy  band,  clustering  yonder 
— ghastfy  with  wounds — dripping  with  blood — clustering  in  one  solemn 
meeting  around  that  Impenetrable  Bar  ? 

At  one  glance,  Pulaski  took  in  the  terrible  details  of  the  scene. 

"  Now,"  shouted  Washington,  "  Let  us  go  down  !" 

He  pointed  to  the  valley  with  his  sword.  All  his  reserve,  all  his  calm 
ness  of  manner  were  gone. 

"  Let  us  go  down  !"  he  shouted  again.  "  The  day  is  lost,  but  we  will 
pive  these  British  gentlemen  our  last  farewell.  Pulaski — do  you  hear  me 
— do  you  echo  me — do  you  feel  as  I  feel  ?  The  day  is  lost,  but  we  will  go 
down  !" 

"  Down  !"  echoed  Pulaski,  as  his  eye  caught  the  glow  Hashing  from  the 
eye  of  Washington — "  Give  way  there  !  Down  to  the  valley,  for  our  lasl 
farewell  !" 

Washington  quivered  from  head  to  foot.  His  eye  glared  with  the  fevet 
of  strife.  The  sunlight  shone  over  his  bared  brow,  now  radiant  with  an 
immortal  impulse. 

His  hand  gathered  his  sword  in  an  iron  grasp — he  spoke  to  his  steed — 
the  noble  horse  moved  slowly  on,  through  the  ranks  of  Pulaski's  legion. 

Those  rough  soldiers  uttered  a  yell,  as  they  beheld  the  magnificent  form 
of  Washington,  quivering  with  battle-rage. 

**  Come,  Pulaski !     Our  banner  is  there  !     Now  we  will  go  down  !" 

Then  there  was  a  sight  to  see  once — and  die  ! 

Rising  in  his  stirrups,  Washington  pointed  to  the  fight,  and  swept  down 
the  hill  like  a  whirlwind,  followed  by  Pulaski's  band,  Pulaski  himself  vainly 
endeavoring  to  rival  his  pace,  at  the  head  of  the  iron  men. 

General  Greene,  turning  his  head  over  his  shoulders,  in  the  thickest  of 
the  fight,  beheld  with  terror,  with  awe,  the  approach  of  Washington.  He 
would  have  thrown  his  horse  in  the  path  of  the  chief,  but  the  voice  of 


338  THE  BATTLE  OF  3RANDYWINE. 

Washington- -terrible  in  its  calmness,  irresistible  in  its  rage — thundered 
even  amid  the  clamor  of  that  fight. 

"  Greene — come  on  !" 

Who  could  resist  that  look,  the  upraised  sword,  the  voice  ? 

The  band  of  Pulaski  thundered  by,  and  Greene  followed  with  horse  and 
foot,  with  steed  and  bayonet  !  The  fire  blazing  in  Washington's  eye  spread 
,ike  an  electric  flash  along  the  whole  column.  The  soldiers  were  men  no 
longer ;  no  fear  of  bayonet  or  bullet  now  !  The  very  horses  caught  the 
fever  of  that  hour. 

One  cry  burst  like  thunder  on  the  British  host : — "  Give  way  there  ! 
Washington  comes  to  battle  !" 

Far  down  the  hill,  La  Fayette  and  the  Life  Guard  were  doing  immortal 
deeds,  for  the  banner  of  the  stars. 

Brows  bared,  uniforms  fluttering  in  rags,  they  followed  the  Boy  of  Nine 
teen,  into  the  vortex  of  the  fight,  waving  evermore  that  banner  overhead. 

They  saw  Washington  come.  You  should  have  heard  them  shout,  you 
should  have  seen  their  swords  how,  dripping  with  blood,  they  glittered  on 
high. — La  Fayette  saw  Washington  come,  yes,  the  majestic  form,  the  sun- 
lighted  brow  !  That  sight  inflamed  his  blood — 

"  Now,  La  Fayette,  come  on  !" 

They  were  ranged  beside  the  band  of  Pulaski,  these  children  of  Wash 
ington  ;  the  gallant  Frenchman  led  them  on. 

Thus  Washington,  Pulaski,  Greene,  La  Fayette,  thundered  down  into 
the  fight.  It  was  terrible  to  hear  the  tramp  of  their  horses'  hoofs. 

Captain  Waldemar — the  brave  partizan — with  the  last  twenty  of  his 
riders,  was  holding  a  de  perate  fight  with  thrice  the  number  of  British 
troopers. — He  too  beheld  Washington  come,  he  too  beheld  that  solid 
column  at  his  back  ;  with  one  bound  he  dashed  through  the  British  band ; 
in  another  moment  he  was  by  the  side  of  La  Fayette.  Washington  turned 
to  him 

"  Waldemar,  we  go  yonder  to  make  our  last  farewell  !   Come  on  !" 

And  they  went, — yes,  Washington  at  the  head  of  the  column  led  them 
on.  With  banners  waving  all  along  the  column,  with  swords  and  bayonets 
mingling  in  one  blaze  of  light,  that  iron  column  went  to  battle. 

The  British  were  in  the  valley  and  over  the  fields  ;  you  might  count 
them  by  thousands. 

There  was  one  horrid  crash,  a  sound  as  though  the  earth  had  yawned  to 
engulph  the  armies. 

TiiL-M,  oh  then,  you  miuht  see  this  holt  of  batik1,  crashing  into  the  Bri 
tish  host,  as  a  mighty  river  rushing  into  the  sea,  drives  the  ocean  waves  far 
before  it.  You  might  see  the  bared  brow  of  Washington,  far  over  swords 
and  spears  ;  then  might  you  hear  the  yell  of  the  British,  as  this  avalanche 
of  steel  burst  on  their  ranks  !  Men,  horses,  all  were  levelled  before  the 
path  }f  this  human  hurricane.  Follow  the  sword  of  Washington,  yonder. 


WASHINGTON'S  LAST  CHARGE  AT  BRANDYWINE.  339 

two  hundred  yards  right  into  the  heart  of  the  British  army,  he  is  gone, — 
gone  in  terrible  glory  !  On  either  side  swell  the  British  columns,  but  this 
avalanche  is  so  sudden,  so  unexpected,  thai  iheii1  proud  array  are  for  '.b? 
moment  paralyzed. 

And  now  Washington  turns  again.  He  wheels,  and  his  band  wheel  with 
him.  He  comes  back,  and  they  come  with  him.  His  sword  rises  and 
falls,  and  a  thousand  swords  follow  its  motion. 

And  down — shrieking,  torn,  crushed, — the  foemen  are  trampled  ;  anotner 
furrow  of  British  dead  strew  the  ground.  (Vain  were  it  to  tell  the  deeds  of 
all  the  heroes,  in  that  moment  of  glory.  Greene,  La  Fayette,  Puia»ki, 
Waldemar,  the  thousand  soldiers,  all  seem  to  have  but  one  arm,  one  soul  ! 
They  struck  at  once,  they  shouted  at  once,  at  once  they  conquered. 

"  Now,"  he  shouted,  as  his  uniform,  covered  with  dust  and  blood,  quivered 
with  the  glorious  agitation  that  shook  his  proud  frame,  "  Now,  WE  CAN 

AFFORD  TO  RETREAT  !" 

It  was  a  magnificent  scene. 

Washington — his  steed  halted  by  the  roadside,  the  men  of  Pulaski  and 
his  own  life-guard  ranged  at  his  back — Washington  gazed  upon  his  legions 
as  they  swept  by.  They  came  with  dripping  swords,  with  broken  arms  ; 
— horse  and  foot,  went  hurrying  by,  spreading  along  the  rode  to  the  eoufh, 
while  the  banner  of  the  stars  waved  proudly  overhead.  First,  the  legions 
of  Greene,  then  the  band  of  Waldemar,  with  the  gallant  La  Fayette  riding 
m  their  midst.  He  was  ashy  pale,  that  chivalrous  boy,  and  the  manly  arm 
of  a  veteran  trooper  held  him  in  the  saddle.  His  leg  was  shattered  by  a 
musquet  ball.  Yet,  as  he  went  by,  he  raised  his  hand,  still  grasping  that 
well-used  sword,  and  murmured  faintly  that  word  his  French  tongue  pro 
nounced  so  well — "  Washington  !"  Washington  beheld  the  hero,  and  smiled. 

"  God  be  with  you,  my  brave  friend  !" 

Then  came  the  wreck  of  Sullivan's  division,  blood-stained  their  faces, 
broken  their  arms,  wild  and  wan  their  looks,  sad  and  terrible  their  shattered 
array.  They  swept  by  to  the  south,  their  gallant  General  still  with  his 
nand. 

"  Now,"  said  Washington,  while  the  Life  Guard  and  Pulaski's  men  en 
circled  him  with  a  wall  of  steel,  "  Now  we  will  retreat !" 

At  this  moment,  while  the  British  recovered  from  their  late  panic,  were 
rushing  forward  in  solid  columns,  the  face  and  form  of  Washington  pre- 
•ented  a  spectacle  of  deep  interest. 

He  sat  erect  upon  his  steed,  gazing  with  mingled  sadness  and  joy,  now 
upon  the  retrearing  Continentals,  now  upon  the  advancing  British.  Around 
nim  were  the  stout  troopers  ;  by  his  side  the  warrior  form  of  Pulaski,  far 
i>way  hills  and  valleys,  clouded  with  smoke,  covered  with  marching  legions  ; 
above,  the  blue  sky,  seen  in  broken  glimpses — the  blue  sky  and  the  declin- 
jjg  sun. 

The  blue  and  buff  uniform  of  the  Hero  was  covered  with  dust  and  blood 


340  THE   BATTLE    OF   BRANDY  WINE. 

His  sword,  lifted  in  his  extended  arm,  was  dyed  with  crimson  drop*. 

You  could  see  his  chest  heave  again,  and  his  eye  glare  once  more : 

"  On,  comrades,  now  we  can  afford  to  retreat !" 

And  the  sunlight  poured  gladly  over  the  uncovered  brow  of  Washington. 

This  was  the  last  incident  of  the  battle  !  But  an  hour  since  the  conflict 
began,  and  yet  the  green  valley  is  crowded  with  the  bodies  of  dead  men. 
The  Quaker  temple  throbs  with  the  groans  of  the  dying.  The  clear  spring 
of  cold  water,  down  in  the  lap  of  the  valley,  is  now  become  a  pool  of  blood, 
its  yellow  sands  clotted  with  carnage. 

A  thousand  hearts,  that  one  brief  hour  ago,  beat  with  the  warmest  pulsa- 
lions  of  life,  are  now  stilled  forever.  And  at  this  dread  hour,  as  if  in 
mockery  of  the  scene,  while  the  souls  of  the  slain  thronged  trembling 
Jo  their  dread  account,  the  sun  set  calmly  over  the  battle  field,  the  blue 
tky  smiled  again — the  Brandywine  went  laughing  on! 

Let  us  group  together  these  Legends  of  the  past,  illustrative  of  the 
Romance  and  Tragedy  of  Brandywine. 

XV.— THE    HUNTER-SPY. 

NOT  in  the  dim  cathedral  aisle,  where  the  smoke  of  the  incense  ascends 
foi  evermore,  and  the  image  of  the  Virgin  smiles  above  the  altar — not  in 
the  streets  of  the  colossal  city,  where  the  palace  and  the  hut,  the  beggar  and 
the  lord,  are  mingled  in  the  great  spectacle  of  life — not  even  in  the  quiet 
hora^e  of  civilization,  where  the  glow  of  the  hearth-side  flame  lights  up  the 
face  of  the  mother  as  she  hushes  her  babe  to  slumber — 

But  among  the  mountains,  where  sky,  and  rock,  and  tree,  and  cataract, 
speak  of  the  presence  of  their  God, — Nature,  with  her  thousand  voices, 
sings  forever,  her  anthem  of  thankfulness  and  prayer. 

It  is  a  sublime  anthem  which  she  sings  out  yonder,  in  the  untrodden 
wildernoes.  The  cataract  thunders  it,  as  in  all  the  glory  of  its  flashing 
waters,  it  springs  from  the  cliff  into  the  darkness  below.  The  breeze,  too, 
softly  murmuring  among  the  tops  of  the  evergreen  pines,  in  the  calmness 
of  the  summer  morn,  in  the  shadows  of  the  summer  eve,  whispers  that 
anthem,  as  with  an  angel's  voice.  The  sky  writes  it  upon  her  vault,  not 
only  in  the  sun  and  stars,  and  moon,  but  in  every  feathery  cloud  that  skims 
over  its  blue  dome,  in  the  deep  silence  of  a  summer  noon. 

But  at  night,  when  the  storm  comes  out,  and  mingles  cataract  and  rock, 
forest  and  sky,  in  one  fierce  whirlpool  of  battle  ;  then  the  thunder  sinps  the 
anthem,  and  the  lightning  writes  it  on  the  universe. 

It  was  noon  among  the  mountains,  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago,  when  the 
sun  shone  down  through  the  woods  upon  the  waters  of  a  cataract,  trem 
bling  in  tumultuous  beauty  on  the  verge  of  a  granite  cliff,  ere  it  dashed  into 
the  abyss  below. 

Let  us  pause  upon  th«  verge  of  this  cliff,  and  gaze  upon  Nature  as  she 


THE   HUNTER-SPY.  341 

•tends  before  us,  clad  in  the  wild  glory  which  she  has  worn  since  the  hour 
when  "  Let  there  be  Light !"  from  the  lips  of  Divinity,  thundered  over  the 
chaos  of  the  new-born  world. 

Upon  the  verge  of  the  cliff.  Grey  and  hoary,  overgrown  with  vines,  and 
clamps  of  moss.  It  trembles  beneath  our  feet — trembles  as  with  the  pulse 
of  the  cataract.  Look  yonder — a  mass  ot  waters,  not  riTty  yards  in  width, 
emerging  from  the  foliage,  gliding  between  walls  of  rocks,  gleaming  for  a 
moment  in  bright  sunshine  on  the  edge  of  darkness,  and  then  dashing  in  one 
long  stream  of  light  and  spray,  far  down  into  night. 

Look  below — ah  !  you  tremble,  you  shrink  back  appalled.  That  void 
is  terrible  in  its  intense  blackness.  And  from  that  abyss,  for  evermore, 
arises  a  dull,  sullen  sound,  like  the  whispering  of  a  thousand  voices.  It  is 
the  cataract,  speaking  to  the  rocks  which  receive  it. 

There  is  a  rugged  beauty  in  the  spectacle.  The  woods  all  around,  with 
grey  cliffs  breaking  from  the  canopy  of  leaves  ;  the  sky,  seen  there,  far 
above  the  cataract  and  its  chasm  ;  the  cataract  itself,  bridged  by  fallen 
tree. 

A  massy  oak,  rent  from  the  earth  by  the  storm,  extends  across  the  cata 
ract,  just  where  it  plunges  into  darkness.  Here,  on  the  western  side,  you 
behold  its  roots,  half  torn  from  the  ground — yonder,  on  the  eastern  side, 
its  withered  branches,  strongly  contrast  with  the  waving  foliage  all  around. 
And  between  the  rocks  and  the  fallen  tree,  glide  the  waters,  ere  they  dash 
below. 

As  we  stand  here,  on  this  rock,  leaning  over  the  darkness,  tell  me,  does 
not  the  awful  silence  of  these  primeval  woods — only  broken  by  the  eternal 
anthem  of  the  mountain  stream — strike  your  hearts  with  a  deep  awe  ? 

Another  music  shook  the  woods  an  hour  ago.  Strange  sounds,  scarce 
ever  heard  in  these  woods  before  ;  sounds  deeper  than  the  roar  of  the  cata 
ract,  yet  not  so  loud  as  thunder.  Distant  shouts,  too,  like  the  yell  of  mad 
dened  men,  were  borne  upon  the  breeze,  and,  for  a  moment,  the  cataract 
seemed  to  hush  itself  into  silence,  as  a  horrible  chorus  of  groans  broke  over 
the  woods. 

What  meant  these  sounds,  disturbing  the  sanctity  of  the  Almighty's 
forest?  We  cannot  tell ;  but,  only  yesterday,  a  brave  band  of  men,  attired 
in  scarlet  and  gold,  with  bayonets  gleaming  over  their  heads,  passed  this 
way  in  solid  columns. 

Only  yesterday,  their  commander — a  man  of  courtly  look  and  glittering 
apparel — rode  through  these  woods,  pointing  gaily  with  his  sword,  as  the 
warm  hope  of  victory  flushed  his  face  :  while  at  his  side,  journeyed  a  young 
man,  with  thoughtful  eye  and  solemn  face.  The  commander  was  clad  in 
scarlet  and  gold — the  young  man,  in  blue  and  silver.  The  commander  wa§ 
General  Braddock  ;  the  young  man.  Colonel  Washington. 

All  day  long  the  sounds  of  battle,  borne  from  afar  by  th«?  breeze,  have 
shrieked  through  the  woods,  but  now  all  is  still. 


342  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

Yet  hold — there  is  a  crashing  sound  among  the  branches,  on  this  western 
side  of  tne  waterfall — look  !  A  face  is  seen  among  the  leaves,  another,  and 
another.  Three  faces,  wan,  and  wild,  and  bloody.  In  a  moment,  three 
forms  spring  from  the  covert  and  stand  upon  this  rock,  gazing  around  upon 
chasm,  and  wood,  and  sky,  with  the  wild  glare  of  hunted  tigers. 

The  first  form,  standing  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  with  the  blue  uniform, 
fluttering  in  ribbands  over  his  broad  chest,  and  spotted  with  blood  on  the 
arms.  A  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  with  brown  hair  clustering  around  his 
brow,  and  a  blue  eye  lighting  up  his  sunburnt  face.  Though  his  uniform  is 
rent  and  torn,  you  can  recognize  the  Provincial  Sergeant  in  the  native  troops 
of  General  Braddock's  army. 

At  his  back  stand  two  British  regulars,  clad  in  scarlet,  with  long  military 
boots  upon  each  leg,  and  heavy  grenadier  caps  upon  each  brow.  As  they 
gaze  around — their  weaponless  hands  dripping  with  blood — a  curse  breaks 
from  each  lip. 

"  Don't  swear,"  exclaims  the  Sergeant,  as  he  turns  from  the  chasm  to 
his  brother  soldiers.  "  It's  bad  enough  as  it  is,  without  swearing  !  It's 
like  to  drive  me  mad  when  I  think  of  it  !  Only  yesterday  we  hurried  on, 
through  these  very  woods,  and  now — ugh !  D'ye  remember  what  we  saw, 
by  the  banks  of  the  river,  not  an  hour  ago  ?  Piles  of  dead  men,  those  men 
our  comrades,  each  brow  with  the  scalp  torn  from  the  scull — little  rivers  of 
blood,  each  river  running  over  the  sod,  and  pouring  into  the  Monongahela, 
until  its  waves  became  as  red  as  your  uniform.  Ah !  I  tell  you,  boys,  it 
makes  a  man  sick  to  think  of  it !" 

"  And  them  Injins,"  exclaimed  the  tallest  of  the  British  soldiers,  "  how 
like  born  devils  they  screech  !  The  fightin'  I  don't  mind,  but  I  confess  the 
screechin'  hurts  one's  feelin's." 

The  other  soldier,  with  a  darkening  brow,  only  muttered  a  single  word, 
hissing  it,  as  with  the  force  of  his  soul,  through  his  set  teeth : 

"  The  SPY  !" 

At  that  word,  the  Sergeant  started  as  though  bitten  by  a  rattle-snake. 
His  face,  so  frank  in  its  hardy  manliness  of  expression,  was  violently  con 
torted,  his  hands  clenched. 

"  Aye,  the  Spy  !"  he  growled  :  "  Would  that  I  had  him  here  !" 

He  bent  over  the  chasm,  his  blue  eye  glaring  with  dangerous  light,  as  hia 
fingers  quivered  with  the  frenzy  of  revenge. 

"  Would  that  I  had  him  here,  on  this  rock  !  By  that  home  which  I  never 
hope  to  see  again,  I  would  give  my  life  to  hold  him,  for  one  moment  only, 
•n  the  verge  of  this  rock,  and  then  — " 

"  Send  him  yelling  down  into  the  pool  below !"  added  the  tall  soldier. 

The  other  soldier  merely  wiped  the  blood  from  his  brow,  and  muttered 
a  deep  oath,  coupled  with  the  ominous  words — "  The  Spy !" 

"  Come,  my  boys,  we  must  hurry  on  !"  cried  the  Sergeant,  his  form 
rising  proudly  in  the  sunlight. — "  Them  Injin  devils  are  in  our  rear,  and 


Trfri    HUNTER- SPY.  ->43 

you  know  the  place  where  ail  us  fellows,  who  dont  happen  to  be  killed,  are 
to  meet !  Aye,  aye  !  Come  on  !  Over  this  fallen  tree  be  our  way  !" 

Followed  by  the  regular  soldiers,  the  Provincial  Sergeant  crosses  the 
fearful  bridge.  You  see  them  quivering  there,  with  but  a  foot  of  unhewn 
timber  between  them  and  the  blackness  of  the  chasm  ;  the  sunbeam  lights 
up  their  tattered  uniform  and  blood-stained  faces. 

In  the  centre  of  the  fallen  tree,  even  while  the  roar  of  the  cataract  deafens 
his  ears,  the  Sergeant  suddenly  turns  and  confronts  his  comrades  : 

"  Did  n't  he  look  beautiful  ?"  he  shouts  ;  and  his  eye  flashes,  and  his 
cheek  glows — "  Yes,  beautiful's  the  word  !  I  mean  our  young  Virginia 
Colonel,  charging  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight,  with  his  sword  uplifted,  and 
his  forehead  bare  !  Did  you  see  his  coat,  torn  by  the  bullets,  which  pattered 
about  him  like  hail-stones  ?  And  then,  as  he  knelt  over  the  dyin'  General, 
shielding  him  from  bullet  and  tomahawk,  at  the  hazard  of  his  life, — I  vow 
he  did  look  beautiful !" 

As  he  speaks,  his  form  trembles  with  the  memory  of  the  battle,  and  the 
tree  trembles  beneath  him.  The  British  soldiers  do  not  speak  a  word — 
their  position  is  too  fearful  for  words — but  with  upraised  arms  they  beseech 
the  Sergeant  to  hurry  on. 

Across  the  perilous  bridge,  and  along  this  eastern  rock — a  murmur  of  joy 
escapes  from  each  lip. 

Then,  through  the  thickly-gathered  foliage,  into  this  forest-arbor,  formed 
by  the  wild  vines,  hanging  from  the  limbs  of  this  centuried  oak. 

A  quiet  place,  with  gleams  of  sunshine  escaping  through  the  leaves,  and 
lighting  up  the  mossy  sod,  and  the  massive  trunk  of  the  grand  old  tree. 

What  means  that  half-muttered  shriek,  starting  from  each  heart,  and 
hushed  by  the  biting  of  each  lip  ? 

The  Sergeant  starts  back,  places  a  hand  on  the  mouth  of  each  soldier,  and 
his  deep  whisper  thrills  in  ears — 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven  be  still !" 

Then  every  breath  is  hushed,  and  every  eye  is  fixed  upon  the  cause  oi 
that  strange  surprise. 

There,  at  the  foot  of  the  tree,  his  head  laid  against  its  trunk,  his  limbs 
stretched  along  the  sod,  slumbers  a  man  of  some  fifty  years,  one  arm  bent 
under  his  grey  hairs,  while  the  other  clasps  the  barrel  of  a  rifle.  Gaze 
upon  that  sunburnt  face,  pinched  in  the  lips,  hollow  in  the  cheeks,  the  brow 
narrow  and  contracted,  the  hair  and  eyebrows  black,  sprinkled  with  grey 
and  tell  me,  is  it  not  the  index  of  a  mean  heart,  a  cankered  soul  ? 

The  form,  clad  in  the  shirt,  leggins  and  moccasins  of  one  of  the  outcasts 
of  civilization,  in  whom  were  combined  the  craft  of  the  pale  face,  with  the 
ferocity  of  the  savage,  is  lean,  straight  and  angular,  with  the  sinews  gatherec 
around  the  bones  like  iron  thongs. 

And  while  the  three  soldiers,  with  darkening  fac«a,  gaae  upon  him,  he 
•leeps  on,  this  wild  hunter  of  the  wild  woods. 


344  THE  BATTLE    OF   BRANPYWINE. 

Do  you  see  that  silken  purse,  slightly  protruding  from  the  breast  of  the 
coarse  hunting  shirt.  Look — even  as  the  sunbeam  falls  upon  it,  the  gleam 
of  golden  guineas  shines  from  its  net-work. 

There  is  a  strange  story  connected  with  that  silken  purse,  with  its  golden 
guineas. 

Not  ten  days  ago,  the  British  General  was  encountered  in  the  wild  forest 
of  the  Alleghany  mountains,  by  a  tall  hunter,  who  offered  to  act  as  his  guide 
to  Fort  Pitt,  where  the  French  held  their  position.  The  offer  was  accepted 
— the  reward  fifty  guineas.  The  young  Colonel  Washington  distrusted  this 
hunter — traitor  was  stamped  on  his  face — but  Braddock  laughed  at  hia 
distrust. 

The  guide  led  them  forward — led  them  into  the  ambush  of  this  morning, 
and  then  disappeared. 

At  this  moment,  five  hundred  hearts  are  cold  on  Braddock's  field — there 
are  an  hundred  little  rills  of  blood  pouring  into  the  waves  of  Monongahela 
river ;  Braddock  himself  lies  mangled  and  bleeding  in  the  arms  of  Wash 
ington  ; — and  here,  in  this  arbor  of  the  wild  wood,  lulled  to  rest  by  the  an 
them  of  the  cataract,  sleeps  the  hunter-guide,  with  the  silken  purse  and  its 
fifty  guineas,  protruding  from  his  breast.  Every  guinea  bears  on  its  surface 
the  head  of  King  Louis.  Every  guinea  was  given  as  the  price  of  a  life, 
and  yet  there  is  no  blood  upon  them ;  but  the  sun,  shining  through  the 
foliage  lights  them  with  a  mild,  warm  glow. 

And  all  the  while  the  three  soldiers  stand  there,  biting  their  lips,  and 
clenching  their  hands  together.  There  is  something  fearful  in  this  ominous 
silence. 

At  last  the  Sergeant  advances,  stealthily,  it  is  true,  yet  the  sound  of  his 
footstep  echoes  through  the  wood.  Still  the  Hunter  sleeps  on.  Then  with 
a  rude  knife  he  severs  a  piece  of  the  wild  vine,  ties  one  end  around  a  pro 
jecting  limb  of  the  oak,  pushes  the  leaves  aside,  and  you  behold  the  other 
end  dangling  over  the  chasm. 

A  flood  of  sunlight  rushes  in  through  the  opening,  bathes  with  its  glow 
the  darkened  face  of  the  Sergeant,  and  the  withered  face  of  the  sleeping 
man.  Around  the  form  of  the  Sergeant,  so  vigorous  in  its  robust  manhood, 
extends  the  mass  of  foliage,  like  a  frame  around  a  picture.  For  a  moment, 
he  stands  there,  on  the  edge  of  the  eastern  rock,  the  grape  vine  dangling  in 
one  hand,  while  his  straining  eye  peruses  the  darkness  of  the  abyss. 

As  he  turns  to  his  comrades  again,  he  utters  this  singular  sentence  in  a 
whisper : 

"  Does  n't  it  seem  to  you  that  a  man  tied  to  this  grape-vine  by  the  neck, 
and  forced  to  leap  from  the  rock,  would  stand  a  mighty  good  chance  of 
being — hung  ?" 

A  grim  smile  passes  over  each  face — still  the  hunter  sleeps  on  ;  he  sleeps 
th«  sound  slumber  of  hardship  and  toil. 


THE   HUNTER- SP*.  345 

Presently  the  Sergeant  advances,  shakes  him  roughly  by  the  shoulder, 
and  shouts  in  his  ear — 

"  Come,  Isaac,  get  up.     To-day  you  die  !" 

The  sleeping  man  quivered,  opened  his  eyes,  beheld  the  darkened  fact 
above,  and  then  clutched  for  his  rifle. 

With  a  sudden  movement,  the  Sergeant  flings  it  beyond  his  reach. 

"  You  know  me,  Isaac.  You  see  the  blood  upon  my  coat.  You  know 
your  doom.  Get  up,  and  say  your  prayers." 

This  was  said  in  a  very  low  voice,  yet  every  word  went  to  the  Hunter's 
heart.  In  silence  he  arose.  As  he  stood  erect  upon  the  sod,  it  might  be 
seen  that  lie  was  a  man  of  powerful  frame  and  hardened  sinews.  He  gazed 
from  face  to  face,  and  then  toward  the  cliff' — his  countenance  changed  from 
sunburnt  brown  to  asky  paleness. 

"  What  d'ye  mean  ?"  he  falters.  "  You  don't  intend  mischief  to  an 
old  man  ?" 

Paler  in  the  face,  tremulous  in  each  iron  limb — ah  !  how  cowardice  and 
crime  transform  a  man  of  iron  sinews  into  a  trembling  wretch  ! 

44  Say  your  prayers,  Isaac,"  was  the  only  answer  which  awaited  him. 
As  the  Sergeant  spoke,  the  light  in  his  blue  eye  grew  wilder  ;  he  trembled 
from  his  heart  to  his  ringer-ends,  but  not  with  fear. 

Again  the  Hunter  raised  his  stealthy  grey  eye,  ranging  the  arbor  with  t 
glance  of  lightning-like  rapidity.  All  hope  of  escape  was  idle. 

"  Let  me  finish  him  with  the  knife  !"  growled  the  tall  soldier. 

"  Say  the  word,  Sergeant,  and  I'll  send  a  bullet  from  his  own  rifle  through 
his  brain  !" 

"  I  know'd  ye  when  ye  was  a  boy,  down  yander  in  the  hills  of  old  Vir- 
ginny,  Isaac,"  said  the  Sergeant ;  "  and  know'd  ye  for  a  liar  and  thief. 
Now  ye're  grown  to  a  tolerable  good  age — grey  hairs,  and  wrinkles,  too, — 
I  know  ye  for  a  traitor  and  a  murderer  !" 

"  But,  Jacob,  you  won't  kill  me  here,  like  a  dog  ?"  exclaimed  the  Hunter, 
in  a  hollow  voice. 

"  There's  a  matter  of  five  or  six  hundred  men  dead,  this  hour,  on  yonder 
battlefield.  Not  only  dead,  but  mangled — their  skulls  peeled — ugh  !  It's 
an  ugly  word,  I  know,  but  it's  a  fact — their  skulls  peeled,  and  their  bodies 
cut  to  pieces  by  musquet  balls  and  tomahawks.  You  did  it  all,  Isaac.  You 
sold  your  countrymen— your  flesh  and  blood,  as  I  might  say,  and  sold  'era 
to  the  French  and  Injins. Come,  Isaac,  say  your  prayers  !" 

There  was  a  strange  contrast  between  the  broad,  manly  figure  of  the 
Sergeant,  rising  to  its  full  stature,  and  the  slender  form  of  the  Hun:cr, 
cringing  as  from  the  danger  of  a  threatened  blow.  The  sunlight  fell  over 
both  faces,  one  flushed  with  a  settled  purpose,  the  other  livid  with  tne  ex 
tremity  of  fear.  In  the  shadows  of  the  woody  arbor  the  British  soldiers 
#tood,  awaiting  in  silence  the  issue  of  the  scene. 
22 


346  THE   BATTLE    OF    BRA^DYWINE. 

And  ever  and  anon,  in  the  pauses  of  the  fearful  conversation,  the  cataract 
howled  below. 

"  I've  no  prayers  to  say,"  said  the  Hunter,  in  a  dogged  tone.    "  Come- 
murder  me — if  you  like,  I'm  ready  !" 

There  was  something  sublime  in  the  courage  of  the  Coward,  wuo 
trembled  as  with  an  ague  fit,  as  he  said  the  words. 

The  words,  the  tone,  the  look  of  the  man  seemed  to  touch  even  the  de 
termined  heart  of  the  Sergeant. 

"  But  you  may  have  a  wife,  Isaac,  or  a  child — "  he  faltered — "  You  may 
wish  to  leave  some  message  ?" 

"  I  may  have  a  wife  and  child  and  I  may  not,"  said  the  Hunter,  quietiy 
baring  his  throat.  "  Come,  if  you're  goin'  to  murder  me,  begin  !" 

Then  commenced  a  scene,  whose  quiet  horror  may  well  chill  the  blood  in 
•ur  veins,  as  we  picture  it. 

The  Sergeant  advanced,  seized  the  end  of  the  grape-vine,  and,  while  the 
wretch  trembled  in  his  grasp,  knotted  it  firmly  about  his  neck,  gaunt  and 
sinewy  as  it  was. 

The  doomed  man  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff. — Below  him  boiled  the 
waters — above  him  smiled  the  sky.  His  deathsman  was  at  his  side. 

For  a  moment,  the  Hunter  turned  toward  the  comrades  of  the  Sergeant. 

"  Kill  him  like  a  dog  !"  growled  one  of  the  soldiers. 

"  Remember  the  battle,  and  choke  him  until  his  eyes  start!"  exclaimed 
the  other. 

The  eye  of  the  miserable  man  wandered  to  the  face  of  his  Executioner. 
Calm  and  erect  the  Sergeant  stood  there  ;  the  only  signs  of  agitation  which 
he  manifested,  were  visible  in  a  slight  tremulous  motion  of  his  lip,  a  sudden 
paleness  of  his  cheek. 

"  Ain't  there  no  pity  ?"  whined  the  Hunter.  "  Ye  see  I'm  not  fit  to  die 
— the  waterfall  skeers  me.  No  pity,  did  ye  say  ?" 

"  None  !"  thundered  the  Sergeant,  and  with  one  movement  of  his  arm 
pushed  the  doomed  man  from  the  rock. 

Then — as  the  limb  quivered  with  the  burden  of  the  fearful  fruit  which  it 
bore — as  the  blackened  face  and  starting  eyes,  and  protruding  tongue  glowed 
horribly  in  the  sunlight — as  one  long,  deep  cry  of  agony  mingled  with  the 
roar  of  the  cataract — the  Sergeant  seized  the  purse  of  guineas  and  hurled  it 
far  down  into  the  darkness  of  the  chasm. 

"  Let  the  traitor's  gold  go  with  his  soul  !"  he  cried,  as  the  coin,  escaping 
from  the  purse,  sparkled  like  spray-drops  through  the  air. 

The  level  rays  of  the  setting  sun  streamed  over  the  dead  man's  face. 

All  was  desolate  and  «*ilent  in  the  forest — the  Sergeant  and  his  comrades 
had  passed  on  their  way — the  deep  anthem  of  the  waterfall  arose  to  the 
•unset  Heaven. 

There  was  a  footstep  on  the  fallen  tree,  and  a  boy  of  some  twelve  years, 


THE    HUNTER- SPY.  347 

bearing  a  burden  on  his  back,  came  tripping  lightly  over  the  cataract.  He 
was  roughly  clad,  in  a  dress  of  wild  deer's  hide,  yet  there  was  a  frankness 
about  his  sunburnt  face,  a  daring  in  his  calm  grey  eye,  which  made  you 
forget  his  uncouth  attire.  As  he  came  bounding  on,  as  fearlessly  as  though 
the  floor  of  some  quiet  home  were  beneath  him — the  breeze  tossed  his 
brown  hair  aside  from  his  face,  until  it  waved  in  curls  of  glossy  softness. 

**  Father  !"  his  young  voice  resounded  through  the  woods,  clear  and  shrill 
as  the  tones  of  careless  boyhood.  "  Father,  do  you  sleep  yet  ?"  he  cried, 
as  he  crossed  the  tree.  "  You  know  I  went  this  morning  to  the  Indian's 
wigwam  to  procure  food  and  drink  for  you.  Here  it  is — I'm  safe  back 
again.  Father,  I  say  !" 

Again  he  called,  and  still  no  answer. 

He  stood  on  the  astern  side  of  the  waterfall,  near  the  forest  arbor. 

"  Ah !  I  know  what  you're  about !"  he  laughed,  with  childish  gaiety. 
**  You  want  me  to  think  you're  asleep — you  want  to  spring  up  and  frighten 
me  !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !" 

And  gaily  laughing,  he  went  through  the  foliage,  and  stood  in  the  forest 
arbor — stood  before  the  DEAD  MAN. 

His  FATHER,  hanging  by  the  grape-vine  to  the  oaken  limb,  his  feet  above 
the  chasm,  the  sunset  glow  upon  his  face.  That  face  as  black  as  ink;  the 
eyes  on  the  cheek;  the  purpled  tongue  lolling  on  the  jaw — his  father! 
Every  breath  of  air  that  stirred  waved  his  grey  hairs  about  his  brow,  and 
•wayed  his  stiffened  body  to  and  fro. 

The  boy  gazed  upon  it,  but  did  not  weep.  His  father  might  be  a  thief, 
traitor,  murderer,  but  the  son  knew  it  not.  The  old  man  was  kind  to  him 
— yes,  treacherous  to  all  the  world,  he  loved  his  motherless  child  ! 

"Father!"  the  boy  gasped,  and  the  bread  and  bottle  which  he  bore  on 
his  shoulders,  fell  to  the  ground. 

He  approached  and  gazed  upon  the  body  of  the  dead  man,  You  might 
see  a  twitching  of  the  muscles  of  his  young  face,  a  strange  working  of  the 
mouth,  an  elevation  and  depression  of  the  eye-brows,  but  his  grey  eyes 
were  undimmed  by  a  tear.  There  was  something  terrible  in  the  silent 
sternness  with  which  the  child  gazed  into  his  murdered  father's  face. 

There  was  a  paper  pinned  to  the  breast  of  the  dead  man,  a  rough  paper 
scrawled  with  certain  uncouth  characters.  The  boy  took  the  paper — he 
could  not  read — but  carefully  folding  it,  he  placed  it  within  the  breast  of  his 
jacket,  near  to  his  heart. 

Twenty  years  afterward,  that  paper  was  the  cause  of  a  cold-blooded  and 
horrible  murder,  wild  and  unnatural  in  its  slightest  details. 

Long  and  earnestlv  the  boy  stood  gazing  upon  that  distorted  face.  The 
same  sunbeam  that  shone  upon  the  visage  of  the  dead,  lighted  up  the  singu 
lar  countenance  of  the  boy. 

At  last,  approaching  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  he  took  his  father's  hands  within 
his  own.  They  were  very  cold.  He  placed  his  hands  upon  the  o;d  man'i 


348  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

face.  Tt  was  clammy  and  moist.  The  boy  began  to  shudder  with  a  feni 
hitherto  unknown  to  him.  For  the  first  time,  he  stood  in  the  presence  of 
Death. 

His  broken  ejaculations  were  calculated  to  touch  the  hardest  heart. 

"  Father  !"  he  would  whisper,  "  you  aint  dead,  are  you  ?  If  you  are 
dead  what '11  I  do  ?  Come,  father,  and  tell  me  ye  aint  dead?  Father  !  1 
say,  father  !" 

As  the  sun  went  down,  that  cry  quivered  through  the  woods. 

The  moon  arose.  Still  by  her  pale  light,  there  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff", 
stood  the  boy,  gazing  in  his  father's  face. 

"  I'll  cut  him  down,  that's  what  I'll  do  !"  he  said,  taking  a  hunter's  knife 
from  his  girdle. 

Standing  on  tip-toe  he  hacked  the  grape-vine  with  the  knife  ;  it  snapped 
with  a  sharp  sound:  she  boy  reached  forth  his  arms  to  grasp  his  father's 
body ;  for  a  moment  he  held  it  trembling  there,  the  blackened  face  silvered 
i  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 

But  his  grasp  was  feeble,  compared  to  the  weight  which  it  sustained,  and 
the  body  passed  from  his  hands.  There  was  a  hissing  sound  in  the  air — a 
dead  pause — a  heavy  splash  in  the  waters  below. 

The  boy  knelt  on  the  rock  and  gazed  below.  I  confess,  as  I  see  him 
kneeling  there,  the  light  of  the  moon  upon  his  waving  locks — the  silence  of 
night  only  broken  by  the  eternal  anthem  of  the  cataract, — that  I  cannot 
contemplate  without  a  shudder,  that  sad  and  terrible  picture : 

The  Boy,  leaning  over  the  rock,  as  he  gazes  with  straining  eyes,  far  down 
indo  the  darkness  of  the  abyss,  for  the  DEAD  BODY  OF  HIS  FATHER  ! 

XVI.— THE    SON    OF   THE    HUNTER-SPY. 

THE  gleam  of  the  hearthside  taper  flashed  far  over  the  valley  of  the  Bran- 
iywine.  From  the  upper  window  of  that  peaceful  home,  it  flamed  a  long 
and  quivering  ray  of  golden  light. 

The  old  house  stood  alone,  some  few  paces  from  the  road,  at  least  an 
hundred  yards  from  the  waters  of  the  Brandywine.  A  small  fabric  of  dark 
Ifrey  stone,  standing  in  the  centre  of  a  slope  of  grassy  sod,  with  steep  roof, 
narrow  windows,  and  a  rustic  porch  before  the  door.  On  either  side  of  the 
grassy  slope,  the  woods  darkened,  thick  and  luxuriant ;  above,  the  universe 
of  stars  shed  their  calm,  tranquil  light,  over  the  slumbering  valley ;  from 
afar,  the  musical  murmur  of  the  waves,  rolling  over  their  pebbled  bed,  broke 
the  deep  silence  of  the  night. 

Let  us  look  through  the  darkness,  and  by  the  clear  starlight,  behold  this 
small  two-storied  fabric,  in  all  its  rustic  beauty,  while  yonder,  not  twenty 
yards  distant,  a  hay-rick  rises  from  the  level  of  the  sod.  All  is  still  around 
this  home  of  Brandywine, — the  house,  the  gently-ascending  slope,  the  co 
nical  hay-rick,  the  surrounding  woods,  present  a  picture  of  deep  repose. 


THE   SON    OF   THE   HUNTER-SPY.  34y 

We  will  enter  the  home.  ves.  into  the  upper  room,  from  whose  narrow 
MH»'dow  the  ray  of  the  fireside  taper,  gleams  along  the  shadowy  valley. 

An  old  man,  sitting"  easily  in  his  oaken  arm-chair,  the  glow  of  the  candle 
•ipon  his  wrinkled  face  and  snowy  hairs.  The  smoke  of  his  pipe  winds 
around  his  face  and  head  ;  his  blue  eyes  gleaming  with  calm  light,  and 
composed  features,  and  attitude  of  careless  ease,  all  betoken  a  mind  at  peace 
with  God  and  man. 

On  one  side  you  behold  his  couch,  with  its  coverlid  of  unruffled  white  ; 
yonder  a  rude  table,  placed  beneath  a  small  mirror,  with  a  Bible,  old  and 
venerable,  laid  upon  its  surface.  There  is  a  narrow  hearth,  simmering  with 
a  slight  fire  of  hickory  faggots  ;  beside  the  hearth,  you  see  the  door  of  a 
closet,  its  panels  hewn  of  solid  oak,  and  darkened  into  inky  blackness  by 
the  touch  of  time. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room,  his  calm  face  glowing  in  the  light  of  the  candle, 
sits  the  old  man,  coat  and  vest  thrown  aside,  as  he  quietly  smokes  his 
grateful  pipe.  As  he  knocks  the  ashes  from  the  bowl,  you  may  see  that 
he  is  one-armed ;  for  the  right  arm  has  been  severed  at  the  shoulder  :  the 
sleeve  dangles  by  his  side. 

You  will  confess  that  it  is  but  a  quiet,  nay,  a  tame  picture,  which  I  have 
drawn  for  you — an  old  and  one-armed  man,  smoking  his  evening  pipe,  ere 
he  retires  to  rest,  his  wrinkled  face  melowed  with  unspeakable  content,  his 
blue  eyes  gleaming  from  beneath  the  thick  grey  eye-brows,  as  with  the 
light  of  blessed  memories. 

And  yet  this  scene,  placed  beside  another  scene  which  will  occur  ere  an 
hour  passes,  might  well  draw  tears  from  a  heart  of  granite. 

Suddenly  the  old  man  places  his  hand  against  his  brow,  his  mild  blue 
eye  moistens  with  a  tear.  His  soul  is  with  the  past — with  the  wife  who 
now  sleeps  the  last  slumber,  under  the  sod  of  the  Quaker  graveyard — with 
the  scenes  of  battle  in  the  dim  forests,  where  the  rifle-blaze  streams  rediy 
over  the  leaves,  and  the  yell  of  the  Indian  mingles  with  the  war  of  the 
cataract. 

All  at  once  there  comes  a  memory  which  blanches  the  old  man's  cheek, 
fills  with  wild  light  his  calm  blue  eye.  Looking  back  into  time,  he  beholds 
a  dim  recess  of  the  forest,  perched  above  the  waters  of  the  cataract,  the  sun 
beam  playing  over  its  moss,  while  the  face  of  a  dead  man  glares  horribly  m 
the  last  flush  of  the  sunset  hour. 

The  old  man  rises,  paces  the  floor,  with  his  only  hand  wipes  the  moisture 
from  his  brow. 

"  It  was  right,"  he  murmurs — "  He  had  betrayed  a  thousand  brave  men 
to  death,  and  he  died  !" 

And  yet,  look  where  he  might,  through  that  quiet  room,  he  beheld  a  dead 
man,  suspended  to  the  limb  of  a  forest  oak,  with  the  sunlight — that  last  red 
flush  of  sunset,  which  is  so  beautiful — playing  warmly  over  the  livid  features 

This  you  will  confess,  was  a  terrible  memory,  or  a  strange  frenzy.      An 


350  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYW1SE. 

old  TCI  »n  whose  life  for  at  least  twenty  years,  had  been  spent  in  the  scenes 
o:  a  quiet  home,  to  behold  a  livid  face,  working  convulsively  in  death, 
wherever  he  turned  ! 

"  I  know  not  why  it  is,  but  wherever  I  turn,  I  seem  to  see — yes,  1  cio 
see—a  dead  man's  face  !  And  whenever  I  try  to  think  of  my  dead  wife,  I 
hear  a  voice  repeating — « t.his  night,  this  night  you  die  .'' ' 

As  the  old  man  spoke,  resuming  his  pipe,  a  slight  sound  disturbed  the 
silence  of  the  room.  He  turned,  and  there,  like  a  picture  framed  by  the 
rough  timbers  of  the  doorway,  beheld  the  form  of  a  young  girl,  clad  slightly, 
in  her  night-dress  with  a  mass  of  brown  hair  about  her  neck  and  shoulders. 

One  hand  was  raised,  the  finger  to  her  lip,  and  the  round  white  arm, 
gleaming  in  the  light ;  the  other  grasped  the  handle  of  the  door. 

There  was  something  very  beautiful  in  the  sight. 

Not  that  her  dress  was  fashioned  of  silk  or  purple,  or  that  her  white 
neck  shone  with  the  gleam  of  diamonds  or  pearls.  Ah,  no !  Her  dress 
was  made  of  coarse  homespun  cloth  ;  it  left  her  arms,  and  neck,  and  feet, 
bare  to  the  light.  Still  there  was  a  beauty  about  her  young  face,  which 
glowed  on  the  lips  and  cheeks,  with  the  warmth  of  a  summer  dawn,  and 
shone  in  the  deep  blue  eyes,  with  the  tranquil  loveliness  of  a  starlight 
night. 

Her  hair  too ;  you  cannot  say  that  it  gathered  in  curls,  or  floated  in 
tresses  ;  but  to  tell  the  sober  truth,  in  color  it  was  of  that  rich  brown  which 
deepens  into  black,  and  waving  from  her  white  forehead,  it  fell  in  one  glossy 
mass,  down  to  the  white  bosom,  which  had  never  been  ruffled  by  a  thought 
of  sin. 

With  regard  to  the  young  form,  whose  outlines  gleamed  on  you,  even 
from  the  folds  of  her  coarse  dress,  you  could  not  affirm  that  it  rivalled  the 
dream  of  the  Sculptor,  the  Venus  de  Medici,  or  burst  forth  in  all  the 
majestic  beauty  of  one  of  Raphael's  Painted  Poems.  It  was  but  the  form 
of  a  Peasant  Girl,  reminding  you  in  every  hue  and  outline,  of  a  wild  forest 
rose,  that  flourishing  alone  amid  large  green  leaves,  trembles  on  the  verge 
of  its  perfect  bloom  ;  not  so  gorgeous  as  a  hot-house  plant,  still  very  warm, 
and  very  loveable,  and  very  beautiful. 

And  she  stood  there,  even  on  the  threshold,  her  finger  to  her  lip,  gazing 
with  a  look  of  wild  alarm,  upon  the  wrinkled  face  of  her  father,  the  one 
armed  schoolmaster  of  Brandy  wine. 

"  Mary  !''  the  old  man  exclaimed,  his  eyes  expanding  with  wonder. 

"  Hush,  father  !  Do  you  not  hear  the  tread  of  armed  men  ?  Listen  ! 
Do  you  not  hear  the  rattling  of  arms  ?  Hark  !  That  deep-toned  whisper, 
coupled  with  an  oath — *  Mayland  the  spy — break  the  door — arrest,  and 
bear  him  to  the  British  camp  /'  r 

And  while  the  word  trembled  on  her  lip,  a  dull,  heavy  sound  broke  like 
A  knell  upon  the  air.  It  was  the  crashing  of  a  musket-stock  against  the 
door  of  the  schoolmasters  home. 


THE    SON    OF    THE   HUNTER-SPY.  351 

*•  Fly  !  For  God's  sake,  fly!"  exclaimed  Mary,  darting  foiward,  and 
laying  her  white  hanu  on  the  old  man's  arm. 

**  Fly  !"  he  echoed,  with  a  bewildered  look — "  Wherefore  ?  Whom 
have  I  wronged,  that  I  should  fly  from  my  own  home  at  midnight,  like  a 
hunted  beast  ?" 

In  brief  words,  uttered  with  gasping  breath  and  tremulous  bosom,  the 
Daughter  revealed  the  strange  secret : 

**  A  week  ago,  you  gave  shelter  to  an  old  man,  clad  in  the  garb  of  forest- 
hunter.  That  man  left  in  your  charge  a  pacquet,  which  you  promised  to 
transmit  without  delay,  to  the  Camp  of  Washington  !" 

ki  And  did  so,  this  very  morning." 

"  That  pacquet  was  stolen  from  the  camp-chest  of  General  Howe.  It 
contained  his  plans  of  battle — Now  do  you  guess  wherefore  the  British  sol 
diers  surround  your  house,  whispering  your  name  as  'Mayland  the  Spy  ?'  ' 

The  old  man's  countenance  fell. 

"  Oh,  that  I  had  my  own  good  right  arm  again  !"  he  cried,  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause — "I  would  defy  the  whole  pack  of  red-coat  hounds  !" 

Harsh  language,  this  !  But  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  old  school 
master  was  prejudiced  against  the  British  ;  he  had  seen  but  one  side  of  the 
question — aye,  read  it  too,  in  the  smouldering  ruins  of  the  homes  they  had 
burned,  in  the  livid  faces  of  the  farmers  they  had  butchered. 

The  Peasant  Girl — clad  lightly  as  she  was,  in  her  night  dress — tripped 
softly  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  and  opened  the  closet  door.  In  a 
moment,  she  had  torn  the  loose  boards  from  the  floor. 

"  Father,  the  way  of  escape  lies  before  you  !  This  ladder  descends 
from  the  closet  into  the  cellar  ;  from  the  cellar  a  subterranean  passage  leads 
to  the  side  of  the  hill  !  Quick — there  is  no  time  to  be  lost !  For  GOD'S 
sake— fly  !" 

*  The  ladder  was  used  as  a  stairway  in  the  old  times  ;  the  underground 
passage  was  made  in  the  time  o'  the  Injings,"  murmured  the  old  man. 
"  But  my  daughter,  who  will  protect  you  ?" 

**  They  seek  not  to  harm  me,"  she  hurriedly  exclaimed — "  Hark  !  Do 
you  hear  their  shouts  ?" 

And,  as  if  in  answer  to  her  words,  there  came  a  hoarse  and  murmuring 
cry  from  beneath  the  windows. 

"  One  blow,  and  we'll  force  the  door  !"  a  deep  voice  was  heard — «*  Re 
member,  comrades  !  a  hundred  guineas,  if  we  catch  the  Spy  !" 

The  old  man  hesitated  no  longer.  Placing  a  foot  on  the  ladder,  he  began 
to  descend.  His  daughter  bending  over  him,  held  the  light  in  her  extended 
hand;  its  rays  lighted  his  grey  hairs,  and  warmed  the  soft  outlines  of 
her  face. 

"  Quick,  father !"  she  gaspingly  whispered — "  The  passage  leads  out  on 
the  hill-side,  near  the  hay-stack  !  Ha  !  he  descends — one  moment  more 
and  he  will  stand  in  the  passage  !  Another  moment,  and  he  *"11  be  free  !" 


j62  rlHE  BATTLE    OF   BRANDY  WINE. 

Holding  the  light  above  her  head,  she  swept  her  brown  ha:r  aside  from 
ner  face,  and  gazed  into  the  darkness  beneath  with  dilating  eyes. 

Still  from  beneath  the  windows  arose  that  hoarse  cry ;  again  the  crasl*  of 
oiusquet-stocks  against  the  door. 

"  In  truth,  thee  father  is  in  great  danger,'*  said  a  mild  voice,  which  made 
ihe  young  girl  start  as  though  she  had  trod  on  a  serpent's  fang. 

She  turned,  and  beheld  a  man  of  slender  frame,  clad  in  the  plain  garb  of 
;he  Quaker  faith.  Gaze  upon  him  and  tell  me,  in  that  contracted  face,  with 
sharp  nose  and  hawk-like  grey  eyes,  thin  lips  and  brown  hair,  curling  to 
the  shoulders,  do  you  recognize  some  Memory  of  the  Past  ? 

Does  it  look  like  the  face  of  the  Hunter-Spy,  who  hung  above  the 
chasm,  long  years  ago,  or  like  the  countenance  of  his  Son,  the  laughing  boy, 
whose  blood  was  congealed  to  ice,  by  the  vision  of  the  murdered  man  ? 

"  Gilbert  Gates  !"  exclaimed  Mary  ;  "  here,  too,  in  this  hour  of  peril ! 
Then  indeed,  does  evil  threaten  us  !" 

"  Maiden,  thee  wrongs  me,"  exclaimed  that  soft  and  insinuating  voice. 
"  Passing  along  the  valley,  on  the  way  to  my  farm,  which — as  thee  knows 
— lies  near  Brenton's  ford,  I  beheld  thee  father's  house  surrounded  by 
armed  men,  who  clamored  for  his  blood.  I  found  entrance  by  a  back 
window,  and  am  here  to  save  thee." 

«*  Burst  open  the  door !"  arose  the  shout  from  beneath  the  windows. 
"  We'll  trap  the  Rebel  in  his  den  !" 

"  You  here  to  save  me  ?"  exclaimed  Mary,  as  she  blushed  from  the 
Dosom  to  the  brow  with  scorn.  "  I  tell  you  man,  there  is  Traitor  on  your 
forehead  and  in  your  eye  !" 

"  Look  thee,  maiden — but  two  hours  ago,  thee  father  did  reject  the  offer 
of  marriage  which  I  made  to  thee,  with  words  of  bitterness  and  scorn. 
Now  he  is  threatened  with  death — nay,  smile  not  in  derision — thy  honor  is 
menaced  with  ruin  !  Be  mine — yea,  consent  to  receive  my  hand  in  mar- 
riiige,  and  I  will  save  ye  ! 

"  Ah  !  his  footsteps  are  in  the  cellar— he  gains  the  passage — he  is  saved  !" 
e:rclaimed  Mary,  as  she  flung  the  rays  of  the  light  into  the  gloom  below. 
"  Be  yours  !"  and  while  every  pulse  throbbed  turnultuously  with  loathing, 
she  turned  to  the  strange  man  by  her  side — "Neither  your  assumed  dress, 
nor  awkward  attempt  at  the  Quaker  dialect,  can  deceive  me  !  I  know  you 
— scorn  you  !  Nay,  do  not  advance — I  am  but  a  weak  girl,  but  dare  to 
pollute  me,  with  but  a  finger's  touch,  and  as  heaven  nerves  my  arm,  I  will 
brain  you  with  this  oaken  brand  !'' 

She  stood  on  the  verge  of  the  closet,  one  hand  grasping  the  light,  while 
the  other  raised  aloft  a  solid  piece  of  oak,  which  she  had  seized  from  the 
floor. 

You  oan  see  the  man  of  slender  figure  and  Quaker  dress  shrink  back  ap 
palled.  A  wild  light  blazes  in  his  grey  eye  ;  his  long,  talon-like  lingers  are 
pressed  convulsively  against  his  breast.  Suddenly  his  hard  features  were 


THE    SON    OF   THE    HUNTER-SPY.  353 

fofiened  by  a  look  of  emotion,  which  played  over  his  face  like  a  sunbeam 
'rumbling  on  a  rock  of  granite. 

"  Maiden,  did  thee  know  my  life — MY  OATH — thee  would  not  taunt  me 
ihus.  HE  died  alone  in  the  wild  wood — ah,  even  now,  1  see  the  tunset 
/lush  upon  his  icy  face  .'  My  father — the  only  friend  I  ever  had — the  only 
thing  I  ever  loved.  Maiden,  become  mine,  and  all  shall  be  forgotten — all, 
even  my  OATH  !" 

Clasping  his  hands,  while  his  cold  grey  eyes  were  wet  with  tears,  he  ad 
vanced,  and  gazed  upon  the  warm  bloom  of  the  maiden's  face. 

For  a  moment,  she  gazed  upon  him,  while  the  flush  of  scorn,  which  red 
dened  her  cheeks,  was  succeeded  by  a  look  of  deep  compassion. 

Again  that  deep  roar  beneath  the  windows — hark  !  A  crash — a  wild  yell 
— "  We  have  the  Rebel  up  stairs,  and  the  guineas  are  ours  !" 

"  Does  thee  consent  ?"  exclaimed  Gilbert  Gates,  advancing  a  single  step 

"  Ha  !      The   door  between   the   cellar  and   the    passage   is   unfastened 
But  I  will  save  my  father  at  the  hazard  of  my  life  !" 

With  one  bound  she  flung  herself  upon  the  ladder,  and  with  the  light 
above  her  head,  descended  into  the  darkness  of  the  cellar.  As  she  went 
down,  her  hair  fell  wavingly  over  her  neck  and  shoulders,  over  the  bosom 
wrr'ch  heaved  tumultuously  into  the  light. 

Gilbert  Gates  in  his  Quaker  garb,  with  his  hands  folded  over  his  narrow 
cliest,  stood  alone  in  the  darkness  of  the  school  master's  bed-room.  All 
was  darkness  around  him,  yet  there  was  a  light  within,  which  burned  his 
heart-strings,  and  filled  his  blood  with  liquid  h're. 

Darkness  around  him  ;  no  eye  to  look  upon  the  writhings  of  his  face  ;  and 
yet,  even  there  through  the  gloom,  he  beheld  that  fearful  vision — a  dead 
man  swinging  over  the  abyss  of  a  cataract,  with  the  sunset  flush  upon  his 
icy  face. 

Suddenly  there  was  the  sound  of  trampling  feet  upon  the  stairs  ;  then  the 
blaze  of  torches  flashed  into  the  room,  and  some  twenty  forms  dressed  in 
the  attire  of  Tory  Refugees — half-robber,  half-soldier — came  rushing  over 
the  threshhold. 

44  The  schoolmaster — where  is  he  ?"  exclaimed  their  leader,  a  burly  ruf 
fian,  with  crape  over  his  face,  and  a  white  belt  across  his  breast.  "  Speak, 
Gilbert !" 

44  The  Spy !"  echoed  the  deep  voices  of  the  Tories,  as  they  waved  their 
torches,  their  rifles,  and  their  knives,  above  their  heads. 

44  Yes,  Smoothspeech,  where's  the  schoolmaster,  and  the  purty  robin  his 
daughter,  Polly  ?"  cried  a  voice  which  issued  from  a  mass  of  carbuncled 
face,  which  in  its  turn,  surmounted  by  a  huge  form  clad  in  scarlet.  "  A 
hundred  guineas  for  the  lass,  you  know  ;  eh,  comrades  ?" 

The  answer  of  Gilbert  was  short  and  concise. 

"  In  truth,  it  seems  to  me,  the  old  man  Mayland  and  his  daughter  Mary 
are  even  now  in  the  cellar,  attending  to  their  household  affairs  !" 


,.,*  THE   BATTLE    OF   BRANDYWINE. 

With  one  movement,  the  Tory  Captain  and  his  comrades  rushed  down 
the  stairway. 

Gilbert  approached  the  closet ;  a  light,  gleaming  from  the  cellar  below, 
bathed  his  face  in  a  red  glare. 

"  He  will  emerge  from  the  passage  on  the  hillside,  near  the  hay-stack," 
he  muttered,  while  a  demoniac  look  worked  over  his  contracted  face.—  * 
*  Fairer  tombs  have  I  seen — but  none  so  warm  !" 

As  he  gazes  down  the  narrow  passage,  the  light  from  beneath,  reddening 
his  face,  while  his  slender  form  quivers  with  a  death-like  agony  Let  us 
ao  back  through  the  vista  of  twenty  years,  and  behold  the  boy  gazing  into 
the  darkness  of  the  chasm,  in  search  of  his  father's  corse. 

Who,  in  the  cold-featured,  stony-eyed  Gilbert  Gates,  would  recognize  the 
boy  with  laughing  eyes  and  flowing  hair  ? 

The  blaze  of  torches  illumined  the  cellar. 

Before  a  door  of  solid  oak,  which  separated  the  cellar  from  tne  suoierra- 
nean  passage,  the  Tories  paused.  Then  deep-muttered  oaths  alone  disturbed 
the  midnight  silence. 

"  Quick — we  have  no  time  to  lose — he  is  hidden  in  the  underground 
passage — let  us  force  the  door,  before  the  people  of  the  valley  come  to  .  his 
rescue  !" 

Thus  speaking,  the  Tory  leader,  whose  face  was  hidden  beneath  the  Tolas 
of  crape,  pointed  with  his  sword  towards  a  heavy  billet  of  wood,  whicn 
laid  on  the  hard  clay  of  the  cellar  floor. 

Four  stalwart  Tories  seize  it  in  their  muscular  grasp ;  they  stand  pre 
pared  to  dash  the  door  from  its  hinges. 

"  One  good  blow  and  the  Spy  is  ours  !"  shouts  the  Tory  leader,  with 
an  oath. 

44  And  the  guineas — don't  forget  the  guineas,  and  the  girl !"  growled  the 
red-faced  British  Sergeant. 

The  torch-light  fell  over  their  faces,  frenzied  by  intoxication  and  rage, 
over  their  forms,  clad  in  plain  farmer's  costume,  with  a  belt  across  every 
chest,  a  powder  horn  by  each  side. 

And  at  this  moment,  as  they  stand  ready  to  dash  the  door  into  fragments, 
on  the  other  side  stands  Mary,  the  peasant  girl,  her  round  white  arm  sup 
plying  the  place  of  bar  and  fastening.  Yes,  with  the  light  in  her  extended 
right  arm,  she  gazes  after  the  retreating  form  of  her  father,  while  her  left 
arm  is  placed  through  the  staples,  in  place  of  the  bar. 

One  blow,  and  the  maiden's  arm  will  be  rent  in  fragments,  even  to  the 
shoulder,  one  blow,  and  over  her  crushed  and  trampled  body,  will  be  made 
the  pathway  of  the  ravager  and  robber ! 

"  Heaven,  pity  me  !  My  father  has  not  sufficient  strength  to  roll  the 
rock  from  the  mouth  of  the  passage  !  I  hear  their  voices — their  throats — 


THE    SON    OF  THE   HUNTER-SPY.  366 

tnev  prepare  to  force  the  door,  but  I  will  foil  them  even  yet  !   They  shall 
not  pass  to  my  father's  heart,  save  over  the  dead  body  of  his  child  !" 

Meanwhile,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  door,  the  four  ruffians  stood  ready 
with  the  billet  of  oak,  in  their  iron  grasp. 

44  Now  '."'shouted  the  Tory  Captain,  "  one  good  blow,  and  it  is  done  !" 

They  swayed  the  log  slowly  to  and  fro — it  moved  forward, — all  the  im 
pulse  of  their  iron  sinews  concentrated  in  the  effort — when  a  heavy  body 
fell  from  the  narrow  window  of  the  cellar  and  beat  the  billet  to  the  ground. 

The  curse  of  the  Tory  leader  echoed  through  the  vault. 

In  a  moment,  ere  they  could  raise  a  hand,  up  from  the  darkness  there 
rose  the  form  of  a  giant  negro,  bared  to  the  waist,  his  broad  chest  heaving, 
while  his  eyes  rolled  wildly  in  his  inky  face. 

"  Black  Sampson  !"  growled  the  Tory.  "  Stand  aside  charcoal,  or  I'll 
cut  you  down  !" 

"  Look  heah  !"  shouted  the  Negro,  confronting  the  armed  Tories  with 
his  bared  arms  and  breast,  while  his  teeth  grated  convulsively.  "  Stan'  off 
— I  say  s-t-a-n'  off!  Ole  Massa  Maylan'  kind  to  Sampson — gib  him  bread 
when  he  hungry — med'cin'  when  he  sick  !  Now  you  gwain  to  hurt  de  ole 
man  ?  I  'spose  not,  while  Sampson  hab  an  arm  !  Stan'  off — I'm  dange 
rous  !" 

And  the  black  Hercules  towered  aloft,  his  sinews  writhing,  his  teeth 
clenched,  his  features — moulded  with  the  aquiline  contour  of  the  Ashantee 
race — quivering  with  rage. 

There  was  a  struggle — the  gleam  of  arms — shouts  and  curses — yet  still 
the  Negro  beat  them  back — dashing  their  swords  aside  with  his  weaponless 
hands. 

Still,  true  to  that  wild  fidelity — which  burned  in  his  savage  heart  like  a 
gleam  from  Heaven—  he  shouted  his  hoarse  war-cry. 

44  De  ole  man  kind  to  Sampson  !  'Spose  you  hurt  him  ?  You  mus'  kill 
dis  nigga  fust  !" 

Again  he  beat  them  back — but  at  last,  by  a  simultaneous  effort  they  bore 
him  to  the  earth. 

At  the  same  moment,  the  door  flew  open,  and  a  shriek  quivered  through 
the  cellar. 

44  Saved — my  father — saved  !" 

There,  beneath  the  glare  of  the  torches,  lay  the  form  of  the  fainting  girl 
— her  bosom  pulseless,  her  face  as  white  as  death. 

"  This  way  !"  cried  the  Tory  Captain.  "  We  will  secure  the  Spy  first, 
and  then  his  daughter  !" 

They  rushed  after  their  leader — their  shouts  and  cries,  echoed  far  along 
tne  passage. 

In  another  moment,  a  light  shone  over  the  cellar  anal  t  mian  of  some 
twenty-six  years,  attired  in  the  brown  dress  of  a  fanner,  with  biue  eves  and 
flaxen  hair,  advanced  toward  the  unconscious  girl. 


356  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

"  Here's  a  party  business  !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  strong  German  acc 
— "  De  nigga  kilt,  and  Polly  half  dead  !" 

And  thus  speaking,  honest  Gotleib  Hoff  knelt  before  the  unconscious 
girl. 

On  the  green  slope,  which  arose  from  the  school-master's  home,  toward 
the  woods,  on  the  hill-top  stood  the  strange  being  whom  we  have  known  as 
the  son  of  the  Hunter-Spy,  and  the  Pretended  Quaker — Gilbert  Gates. 

Above  him  arched  the  universe  of  stars — around  him,  slumbered  the 
peaceful  valley  of  Brandywine — within  him,  burned  the  tortures  of  a  losi 
•oul. 

In  his  talon-like  fingers  he  crushed  a  much-worn  paper ;  it  had  been 
pinned  to  the  dead  man's  breast  some  twenty  years  ago. 

There  were  cold  drops  of  sweat  upon  his  brow ;  he  trembled  from  his 
heart  to  his  finger  ends. 

"  They  are  on  his  track,  the  dupes,  the  tools  of  my  vengeance  !  Mine — 
mine — father  and  daughter,  both  mine  !  For  him  a  death  of  horror — for 
her  a  life  of  shame  !  Hah  !  I  hear  their  shouts — they  pursue  him  to  the 
death  !" 

As  he  spoke,  a  long  column  of  light  was  flung  over  the  green  sward 
where  he  stood,  as  if  from  the  bosom  of  the  earth.  A  huge  rock  was  rolled 
from  the  mouth  of  the  mound,  and  the  shouts  and  yells  of  the  ruffian  band 
swelled  on  the  air. 

A  figure  sprang  from  the  shelter  of  the  mound — a  weak  and  aged  man— 
his  attire  covered  with  earth,  and  torn  in  fragments — his  blue  eyes,  wander 
ing  in  their  glance,  his  grey  hairs  tossing  to  the  impulse  of  the  night  breeze. 

As  he  sprung  out  upon  the  sod,  he  muttered  the  name  of  God  : 

"  It  is  hard  for  an  old  man  like  me  to  be  hunted  to  death  like  a  mad  dog ! 
Let  me  see,  which  way  shall  I  turn  ?  I  must  take  to  the  woods  !" 

"  Nay,  friend  May  land,  nay,"  said  a  mild  and  conciliating  voice :  "  Thee 
has  never  trusted  in  me,  yet  now  will  I  save  thy  life.  Not  to  the  woods, 
for  the  bloodhounds  are  too  near  ;  in  truth  they  are.  But  to  the  hay-stack  ! 
Behold  this  cavity,  which  I  have  made  to  conceal  thee,  amid  this  pile  of 
hay  !" 

"  Gilbert  Gates  !"  cried  the  old  man,  starting  back.  "  I  trust  you  not — 
there  is  Traitor  written  on  your  face !" 

44  Hark  !  Does  thee  hear  the  shouts  of  thee  pursuers  ?  *  Death,  death 
to  Mayland  the  Spy  !'  Will  thee  trust  to  them  ?" 

"  To  the  hay-stack  be  it,  then  !"  cried  the  bewildered  old  man :  "  Bles 
me,  what  does  this  mean  ?  A  hole  hollowed  out  in  the  centre  of  the  stack  !" 

44  I'll  tell  thee  when  thou  art  saved !"  cried  Gilbert,  with  his  peculiar 
f  mile.  44  In,  friend  Mayland,  in  !  They  will  never  suspect  thee  hiding- 
place — I  will  conceal  it  with  this  loose  hay  !" 

In  a  moment  Jacob  Mayland  disappeared,  while  Gilbert  Gates  stood  a!o»* 
in  the  centre  of  the  sward. 


THE    SON    OF    THE    HUNTER-SPY.  35? 

The  hay-stack,  round,  compact  and  uniform  in  appearance,  rose  darkly 
in  the  dim  light  of  the  stars.  Within  its  centre,  cramped,  confined,  scarce 
able  to  breathe,  crouched  Jacob  Mayland,  the  one-armed  schoolmaster. 

A  shout  from  the  mound,  a  flash  of  light,  and  some  twenty  forms  leap 
one  by  one,  from  the  mouth  of  the  passage. 

*'  Ha  !  Gilbert  Gates  !"  shouted  the  Tory  leader — "  which  way  went 
they  spy  ?" 

**  To  the  woods  !  to  the  woods  !"  cried  Gilbert,  as  his  sharp  features 
glowed  in  the  light  of  twenty  torches. 

"  Look,  you  smooth-speech  !"  cried  the  huge  British  Sergeant,  stumbling 
forward — "  I  don't  trust  you.  Your  broad-brimmed  hat  don't  hide  youi 
villainous  face.  By ,  I  believe  you've  helped  this  Spy  to  escape  !" 

A  hoarse  murmur  arose  from  the  bravoes,  who  with  ominous  looks,  came 
grouping  round  the  False  Quaker. 

"  Now,  friend  Hamsdrotf,  do  not  get  into  a  passion,"  said  Gilbert,  in  his 
mildest  tones — »*  or  if  thee  does  get  into  a  passion,  I  beseech — '  his  face 
assumed  an  expression  which,  in  its  mingled  mildness  and  hatred,  chilled 
even  the  drunken  Sergeant  to  the  heart — *«  do  not,  I  beseech  thee,  fire  tke 
poor  man's  hay-stack .'" 

"  Ha,  ha  !  Won't  I  though  ?"  shouted  the  Sergeant.  "  The  old  foi 
has  escaped,  but  we'll  burn  his  nest !" 

He  seized  a  torch  and  dashed  it  along  the  hay. 

"  Fire  the  hay-stack,  my  boys  !"  shouted  the  tory  leader  :  "  Fire  the 
hay-stack,  every  man  of  you  !  Burn  the  rebel  out  of  house  and  home  !" 

As  you  look,  twelve  of  the  band  rush  forward  and  encircle  the  hay-stack 
with  a  belt  of  flame.  Another  moment — a  sudden  breeze  from  the  forest — 
the  hay-stack  glows  from  the  sward  a  mass  of  living  flame. 

The  tire  whizzed,  and  crackled,  and  hissed,  winding  around  the  cone  of 
hay,  and  shooting  in  one  long  column,  into  the  midnight  sky.  Abroad  over 
the  meadow,  abroad  over  the  forest,  crimsoning  each  leaf  with  a  blood-red 
glow,  high  and  higher,  tierce  and  madder,  it  whirled  and  rose,  that  column 
of  flame. 

Now  the  Tories,  half  in  rage  and  half  in  drunken  joy,  mingled  hand  in 
hand,  and  danced  around  the  burning  pile. 

"  Hurrah  for  King  George  !"  shouted  the  Sergeant,  leaping  from  the 
ground.  "  Death  to  all  Rebels  !" 

"  So  perish  all  rebels  !"  echoed  the  Tories. 

And  higher  and  higher  rose  the  flame. 

Up  to  the  heavens,  paling  the  stars  with  its  burning  red — over  the  g^een 
of  the  meadows — down  upon  the  waters  of  the  Brandywine — up  the  hill 
side — along  the  woods,  it  rose,  that  merry  flame  ! 

As  in  the  blaze  of  noonday,  lay  the  level  sward,  the  grey  stone  house  of 
the  schoolmaster,  the  frame  barn  with  its  fences  and  outhouses — while 
around  the  burning  pile,  merrier  and  gayer  danced  the  soldiers,  flinging  then 


58  THE   BATTLE    OF    BRANDYWINE. 

swords  in  the  blood-re'l  light,  and  sending  the  name   of  the  Good   King 
George  to  the  skies  ! 

Retired  in  the  background,  some  few  yards  from  the  burning  stack,  his 
arms  folded  on  his  breast,  his  head  turned  to  one  side,  stood  Gilbert  Gates, 
the  Son  of  the  Hunter-Spy.  A  smile  on  his  pinched  lips,  a  cold  gleam  in 
his  eye. 

"  Fire  the  house  !"  shouted  the  Tory  leader. 

They  turned  to  fire  the  house,  but  a  low,  moaning  sound  broke  on  the 
air — it  caused  the  troopers,  brutal  as  they  were,  to  start  with  horror.  The 
leader  of  the  Tories  wheeled  suddenly  round  bending  his  head  to  catch  the 
slightest  whisper ;  the  face  of  the  Sergeant  grew  white  as  his  sword 
belt. 

That  low,  moaning  sound  swelled  to  a  shriek — a  shriek  that  curdled  their 
blood.  It  came  from  the  bosom  of  the  burning  hay-stack — along  the  breeze 
it  yelled,  and  died  away.  Another  shriek  and  another  !  Three  sounds 
more  horrible  never  broke  on  the  ears  of  man.  In  a  moment  all  was  still 
as  death — the  hay-stack  crashed  down  with  a  deadened  sound.  Nothing 
was  left  but  a  pile  of  smouldering  embers.  All  was  still  as  death,  but  a  dim 
object  moved  amid  the  last  remains  of  the  burning  hay — moved,  struggled, 
and  was  still. 

For  the  last  time,  the  flame  glared  into  the  midnight  sky. 

Disclosed  by  that  red  glare,  stood  Gilbert  Gates,  perusing  the  crushed 
paper  which  he  grasped  in  his  talon-fingers. 

These  are  the  words  which  he  read  by  the  glare  of  the  hay-stack,  words 
written  in  a  cramped  hand — perhaps  in  blood — and  dated  more  than  twenty 
years  before  this,  September  day  in  1777 : 

«*  Isaac  Gates— a  Traitor  and  Spy— Hung  by  three  soldiers  of  his 
Majesty's  Army.  JACOB  MAYLAND." 

"  He  died  alone  in  the  wild  woods — and  I — his  son,  and  his  avenger!'* 

With  these  words,  the  son  of  the  Hunter-Spy  passed  behind  the  barn, 
and  was  lost  to  sight. 

And  from  the  accursed  pile  of  death  fled  the  soldiers,  spurring  their  horses 
to  their  utmost  speed — with  the  fear  and  horror  of  coward  guilt  they  fled — 
while  far  over  the  plain,  far  over  the  valley,  came  the  men  of  Brandy  wine, 
loused  from  their  sleep  by  the  burning  hay-stack.  Yes,  from  the  hill-top 
and  valley  they  came,  as  the  last  embers  of  the  fire  were  yet  glowing  on 
the  green  sward. 

And  two  figures  emerged  from  the  door  of  the  schoolmaster's  house,  the 
form  of  a  stout  and  muscular  man,  and  the  form  of  a  trembling  maiden. 

"  Gotlieb,  it  seems  like  a  dream,"  said  the  maiden.  "  The  flight  of  my 
father,  the  chase  in  the  passage — the  swoon  !  Thank  God,  my  father  has 
sscaped  !  But  what  means  this  sudden  stillness — yon  flickering  fire  ?" 

They  reached  the  burning  embers  on  the  hill-side  and  stood  for  a  mornen 
gazing  upon  the  scene. 


THE  SON  OF  THE   HUNTER-SPY.  359 

A  mass  of  burning  hay,  a  pile  of  ashes,  the  wreck  of  some  splintered 
boards,  were  all  that  remained  to  tell  of  the  location  of  the  hay-stack. 

**  What  is  that  dark  thing  in  the  fire  ?"  exclaimed  Mary  Mayland — 
•'  Quick,  Gotlieb — hold  the  light  nearer — it  seems  to  move,  to  stir  !" 

Gotlieb  held  the  light  over  the  darkened  mass.  Here  let  me  pause  for  a 
single  moment. 

You  may  charge  me  with  painting  horrors  that  never  existed. 

And  yet  there  is  not  a  hill  or  a  valley  in  any  one  of  the  old  Thirteen 
States  unstained  with  the  blood  of  peaceful  men,  shed  by  the  hirelings  of 
King  George. 

Not  only  on  the  soil  of  Brandy  wine,  but  in  a  quiet  home  of  Germantown, 
was  a  deed  similar  to  the  one  in  question,  committed  by  American  Tories 
and  their  British  brethren. 

An  old  man  burned  to  death  in  cold  blood  by  the  soldiers  of  King  George  : 
it  is  horrible,  but  having  occurred  in  the  course  of  that  beautiful  game  of 
War,  which  Kings  and  Tyrants  have  played  for  some  four  thousand  years  ; 
let  us  write  it  down,  aye,  in  its  darkest  and  bloodiest  details,  so  that  the 
children  of  our  day  may  know  the  features  of  CIVIL  WAR. 

War  has  been  painted  too  long  as  a  pretty  thing,  spangled  with  buttons, 
fluttering  with  ribbons,  waving  with  plumes. 

Let  us  learn  k>  look  upon  it  as  it  is  ;  a  horrible  bandit,  reeking  with  the 
blood  of  the  innocent,  the  knife  of  murder  in  his  hand,  the  tire  of  carnage 
in  his  eye. 

The  war  which  Washington  waged,  was  not  war,  in  the  proper  sense  of 
the  term.  It  was  only  the  defence  of  one's  hearthside  againat  the  robber 
and  murderer. 

But  of  all  the  hideous  murders  which  have  been  done,  for  two  thousand 
years,  the  war  waged  by  the  British  King,  against  the  American  People, 
was  the  foulest,  the  dastardliest,  the  bloodiest. 

It  was  a  massacre  of  eight  years,  beginning  to  kill  at  Bunker  Hill,  and 
ending  its  work  of  butchery,  only  when  it  was  crushed  at  Yorktown. 

Let  no  mawkish  sympathy  for  Great  Britain  shake  this  truth  from  our 
souls.  The  Englishman  we  do  not  hate  ;  he  is  the  countryman  of  Shaks- 
peare  and  Milton,  he  is  our  brother. 

But  it  will  take  a  thousand  years  of  good  deeds  to  wash  from  the  History 
of  England,  the  horrid  and  merciless  butcheries  which  she  perpetrated  in 
the  Eight  Years'  War. 

To  forgive  these  crimes  is  our  duty,  but  to  forget  them  — 

Can  a  child  forget  the  wretch  who  butchered  his  mother  ? 

Why,  at  the  thought,  the  dead  of  our  battlefields  bleed  again — aye,  from 
the  shades  of  Mount  Vernon,  armed  for  the  combat,  starts  the  solemn  ghost 
of  Washington  ! 

Let  us  follow  this  tragedy  to  the  end,  and  at  the  same  time,  remember — it 
is  only  one  among  a  thousand. 


560  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYW1NE. 

Ootlieb  held  the  light  over  the  darkened  mass. 

Yes,  while  the  men  of  Brandy  wine  formed  a  circle  about  the  scene, 
grouping  around  the  form  of  the  farmer  and  the  maiden,  (the  light  streamed 
over  that  hideous  object  among  the  embers. 

Mary,  the  daughter  advanced,  her  face  glowing  mildly  in  the  light,  ad 
vanced  and — looked — 

— There  are  some  sights  which  it  is  blasphemy  to  paint,  and  this  is  one 
of  them  ! — 

Some  Angel  of  Mercy,  at  the  sight,  took  from  her  sense  and  consciousness. 
She  tell :  her  white  hands  outstretched,  touched  the  mangled  form  of  her 
father. 

Then  one  groan  heaving  from  an  hundred  hearts,  swelled  on  the  air. 

A  dark  form  came  rushing  to  the  scene ;  breasting  the  spectators  aside, 
Sampson,  the  Giant  Negro  stood  there,  gazing  upon  the  horrid  mass  at 
his  feet. 

And  he  knelt  there,  and  his  lips  moved,  and  murmured  a  vow — not  in 
English — but  in  his  wild  Ashantee  tongue.  A  heathen,  with  but  an  im 
perfect  notion  of  the  Christian  Truth,  dragged  from  his  native  land  into 
slavery  when  but  a  child,  the  son  of  a  savage  king,  he  murmured  above 
the  old  man's  skeleton  his  horrible  vow,  devoting  the  murderers  to  his 
Moloch  God. 

How  that  vow  was  kept  let  the  records  of  Brandy  wine  witness  ! 

At  the  moment  while  stout  Gotlieb,  appalled  and  stricken  into  stone,  stood 
holding  the  light  over  the  dead — as  Mary,  pale  and  beautiful,  lay  beside 
that  which  was  her  father,  only  an  hour  ago — as  the  huge  negro  bent  above 
the  witness  of  murder,  his  sinews  quivering,  lips  clenched  and  eyes  glaring, 
as  he  took  the  vow — at  this  moment,  while  the  spectators  stood  alternately 
melted  into  tears  and  frozen  into  the  dead  apathy  of  horror. 

There  came  a  peaceful  man,  gliding  silently  through  the  crowd,  his  bosom 
trembling  with  deep  compassion,  his  eyes  wet  with  tears. 

"  Ah,  this  is  a  terrible  thing  !"  said  a  tremulous  voice — "  In  truth  is  it  1" 

And  the  SON  OF  THE  HUNTER-SPY  stood  gazing  on  the  miserable  remains 
of  his  FATHER'S  EXECUTIONER. 

XVII.— BLACK    SAMPSON. 

How  beautiful  in  yonder  graveyard,  the  wild  flowers  bloom,  above  the 
Mother's  grave  ! 

Fond  hopes  are  buried  here,  yes,  beneath  the  rank  grass  and  the  dark 
mould,  a  true  heart  that  once  throbbed  with  the  pulsations  of  that  passion 
which  is  most  like  Heaven — a  Mother's  Love — moulders  into  dust. 

And  yet  from  the  very  rankness  of  the  mould,  that  encloses  the  Mother's 
"orm,  from  the  very  eyes  and  skull  of  Death,  fair  flowers  bloom  beautifully 
into  light,  and  with  their  fragrance  sanctify  the  graveyard  air. 


BLACK    SAMPSON.  301 

So  from  the  very  blood  and  horror  of  the  battle-field,  many  a  tender 
virtue  is  born,  yes,  from  the  carnage  which  floods  the  green  meadow  with 
the  life-current  of  a  thousand  hearts,  many  a  god-like  heroism  springs 
gloriously  into  life. 

War  is  the  parent  of  many  virtues.  Not  Invading  War,  which  attracts 
ten  thousand  crimes  with  its  blood-red  sword,  and  fills  the  land  with  the 
dead  bodies  of  its  children.  No  !  Invading  War  is  the  Vulture  of  the 
Andes,  gorgeous  in  its  plumage,  bloody  and  merciless  in  its  hatred,  loath 
some  in  its  appetite.  It  feeds  only  on  the  bodies  of  the  dead. 

But  War  for  Home,  and  for  Home's  holiest  altar,  honest  war  waged  with 
a  sword,  that  is  taken  from  its  resting  place  above  the  poor  man's  hearth, 
and  sanctified  with  the  tears  of  his  wife.  War  that  is  fought  beneath  a 
clear  sky,  on  a  native  soil,  with  the  eyes  of  angels  watching  all  the  while  ; 
this  is  a  holy  thing  in  the  sight  of  Heaven. 

From  such  a  war,  fought  on  the  Continent  of  America,  during  the  long 
course  of  Eight  years,  and  extending  its  battle-field  from  the  rock  of  Que 
bec  to  the  meadows  of  Savannah,  a  thousand  unknown  virtues  rushed  into 
birth. 

I  speak  not  now,  of  the  sublime  virtue  of  Washington,  the  heroism  of  La 
Fayette,  the  wild  energy  of  Anthony  Wayne.  No  !  The  hero  whose 
savage  virtue  is  yet  recorded  in  every  blade  of  grass,  that  waves  above  the 
field  of  Brandy  wine,  was  a  poor  man.  A  very  humble  man  who  had  toiled 
from  dawn  until  dusk,  with  the  axe  or  spade.  A  rude  man  withal,  who 
made  his  home  in  a  miserable  hut,  yet  still  a  Hero  ! 

The  virtue  that  he  cherished  was  a  savage  virtue,  meaning  in  plain  words, 
Fidelity  unto  Death  and  after  Death,  yet  still  a  virtue. 

Start  not  when  I  tell  you,  that  this  hero  was — a  Negro  !  His  hair 
crisped  into  wool,  his  skin  blackened  to  the  hue  of  ink,  by  the  fiery  sun  of 
his  clime  and  race,  his  hands  harsh  and  bony  with  iron  toil. 

He  was  a  Negro  and  yet  a  Hero  ! 

Do  not  mistake  me.  I  am  no  factionist,  vowed  to  the  madness  of  treason, 
under  the  sounding  name  of — Humanity.  I  have  no  sympathy — no  scorn 
— nothing  but  pity  for  those  miserably  deluded  men,  who  in  order  to  free 
the  African  race,  would  lay  unholy  hands  upon  the  American  Union. 

That  American  Union  is  a  holy  thing  to  me.  It  was  baptized  some 
seventy  years  ago,  in  a  river  of  sacred  blood.  For  that  Union  thousands 
of  brave  men  left  their  homes,  their  wives,  all  that  man  holds  dear  in  order 
to  die,  amid  ice  and  snows,  the  shock  of  battles,  the  dishonor  of  gibbets. 
No  one  can  count  the  tears,  the  prayers,  the  lives,  that  have  sanctified  this 
American  Union,  making  it  an  eternal  bond  of  brotherhood  for  innumerable 
millions,  an  altar  forever  sacred  to  the  Rights  of  Man.  For  seventy  years 
and  more,  the  Smile  of  God  has  beamed  upon  it.  The  man  that  for  any 
pretence,  would  lay  a  finger  upon  one  of  its  pillars,  not  only  blasphemes 
the  memory  of  the  dead,  but  invokes  upon  his  name  the  Curse  of  all  ages 
23 


362  THE   BATTLE    OF   BKAND\W1JNE. 

yet  to  come.  I  care  not  how  plausible  his  argument,  how  swelling  hia 
sounding  periods,  how  profuse  his  *  sympathy  for  suffering  humanity? 
that  man  is  a  Traitor  to  the  soil  that  bore  him,  a  Traitor  to  the  mother 
whose  breast  gave  him  nourishment,  a  Traitor  to  the  Dead,  whose  very 
graves  abhor  the  pollution  of  his  footsteps. 

All  that  such  a  person  can  plead  in  extenuation,  is  the  miserable  excuse 
of  cowardice  combined  with  folly.  Arnold  was  a  hero,  a  man  of  genius, 
although  a  Traitor.  The  man  who  would  taint  with  one  unhallowed  word 
the  sanctity  of  THE  UNION,  stands  arrayed  in  the  leprosy  of  Arnold's 
Treason,  without  one  redeeming  ray  of  his  heroism,  one  spark  of  his 
genius. 

For  the  American  Union  is  to  Political  Freedom,  what  the  Bible  is  to 
Religious  Hope.  There  may  be  differences  of  opinion  in  relation  to  the 
sacred  volume,  various  creeds  may  spring  from  misconstruction  of  its  pages, 
defects  of  translation  may  mar  the  sublimest  of  its  beauties. 

Would  you  therefore  blot  the  Bible  from  the  earth  ?  Give  us  a  better,  a 
holier  book,  before  you  take  this  from  our  homes  and  hearts  ! 

So  the  American  Union  may  be  the  object  of  honest  differences  of  opin 
ion  ;  it  may  be  liable  to  misinterpretation,  or  be  darkened  by  the  smoke  of 
conflicting  creeds  ;  yes,  it  may  shelter  black  slavery  in  the  south,  and  white 
slavery  in  the  north. 

Would  you  therefore  destroy  it  ?  Give  us  a  better,  a  holier  Union,  be 
fore  you  sweep  this  into  chaos  ! 

With  this  protest  against  every  illegitimate  creation  of  a  feverish  philan- 
throphy,  whether  it  takes  the  shape  of  affection  for  the  suffering  African,  or 
— like  the  valorous  bull  who  contended  with  the  steam  engine — pitches  with 
head  down,  eyes  closed,  horns  erect,  against  the  Happiness  of  Millions,  let 
me  turn  to  my  hero.  A  negro  Hero,  with  hair  like  wool,  skin  as  black 
as  ink. 

Against  the  porch  of  the  murdered  Schoolmaster's  home,  just  before  the 
break  of  day,  on  the  Eleventh  of  September,  1777,  there  leaned  the  figure 
of  a  tall  and  muscular  man. 

You  can  see  him  yonder  through  the  dimness  of  the  day-break  hour,  rest 
ing  with  bent  arms  against  the  railing  of  the  porch.  His  attire  is  very 
simple  ;  rough  coat  and  trowsers  of  plain  homespun,  yet  through  their  loose 
folds,  you  can  discern  the  outlines  of  a  noble,  yes,  magnificent  form. 

It  is  not  his  form  however,  with  its  breadth  of  chest,  its  sinewy  arms,  its 
towering  height,  or  Herculean  outline  of  iron  strength,  that  arrests  your 
attention. 

His  head  placed  erect  upon  his  shoulders,  by  a  firm  bold  neck.  His  face 
with  Us  unmistakable  clearness  of  outline.  The  brow  full  and  prcm.nent, 
the  nose  aquiline  with  slight  and  tremulous  nostrils,  the  lips  not  remarkable 


BLACK    SAMPSON.  365 

for   thickness,  set  together  with  a  firm  pressure,  the  chin  square  and  bold, 
the  cheek-bones  high  and  angular. 

And  yet  he  is  a  Negro,  and  yet  he  has  been  a  slave  ! 

A  Negro,  without  the  peculiar  conformation,  which  marks  whole  tribes 
of  his  race.  Neither  thick  lips,  flat  nose,  receding  chin  or  forehead,  are 
his.  He  stands  in  the  dimness  of  this  hour,  a  type  of  the  war-like  A*han- 
tee  race,  whose  forms  remind  you  at  once  of  Apollo  and  Hercules,  hewn 
from  a  solid  mass  of  anthracite — black  in  hue  yet  bold  in  outline,  vigorous  in 
the  proportions  of  each  manly  limb. 

Black  Sampson — so  they  called  him — stood  leaning  against  the  porch  of 
his  murdered  master's  home,  while  around  him,  certain  white  objects  arose 
prominently  in  the  dim  air,  and  a  vague  murmur  swelled  above  the  meadow 
of  the  Brandywine. 

These  white  objects  were  the  tents  of  the  Continential  Encampment, 
stretching  over  the  valley  afar.  That  murmur  was  the  omen  of  a  terrible 
event.  It  meant  that  brave  men,  with  stout  hearts  in  their  bosoms,  were 
sharpening  their  swords,  examining  their  rifles,  and  eating  their  last  meal 
before  the  battle. 

But  Sampson  looked  not  upon  the  white  tents,  nor  heard  the  murmur. 
Nor  did  he  gaze  upon  a  space  of  earth,  some  few  paces  up  the  hill-snle, 
where  a  circle  had  been  described  on  the  soft  sward,  by  the  action  of  fir?. 

There,  the  night  before  last,  his  friend,  his  master,  the  veteran  who  had 
served  with  Washington  in  Braddock's  war,  had  been — burned  to  death. 

Nor  did  the  eye  of  Black  Sampson,  rest  upon  a  rude  hut,  which  you  can 
see,  down  the  meadow  yonder,  half  way  between  the  stream,  and  the  foot 
of  the  hill.  That  was  Black  Sampson's  home — there,  when  sick  and  at 
death's  door,  he  had  been  fed  by  the  old  schoolmaster,  and  there,  his  dreams 
of  Pagan  Superstition  had  been  broken  by  the  prayers  of  the  schoolmaster's 
child. 

Sampson's  thoughts  were  neither  with  the  murdered  man  and  his  blue- 
eyed  daughter,  nor  with  the  army  whose  murmur  swelled  around. 

No  !  Gathering  his  coarse  garb,  to  his  breast,  he  folded  his  arms,  and 
talked  to  himself. 

Now  you  will  understand  me,  this  Negro,  could  not  speak  ten  ciear 
words  of  our  English  tongue.  He  could  not  master  the  harsh  elements  of 
our  northern  language.  But  when  he  thought,  it  was  in  the  musical  sylla 
bles  of  his  native  Ashantee :  shall  we  translate  his  thoughts  into  English  ? 

"  Years — years — O,  years  of  horrible  torture,  how  ye  glide  away  ! 
Back  into  my  native  land  again — the  land  of  the  desert  and  the  sun,  the 
land  of  the  Lion  and  the  Tiger, — back  once  more  into  my  father's  kraal! 
Yonder  it  stands  among  those  trees,  with  the  large  green  leaves,  and  many 
colored  birds  upon  each  bough  !  Yonder  by  the  deep  river,  whose  waves 
are  white  with  lillies — yonder  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  palm,  yonder 
with  its  roof,  evergreen  with  vines  ! 


364  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

*«  And  my  father  is  here  !  Yes,  with  his  people  and  his  children  round 
him,  he  sits  before  his  palace  gate,  gold  bracelets  on  his  wrists,  the  iron 
spear  in  his  hand,  a  chain  of  diamonds  and  pearls  about  his  neck.  But 
Ka-Loloo,  the  king  of  the  Ashantee  has  grown  old  ;  he  mourns  for  his  son 
— his  son,  who  was  stolen  away,  long  years — ah,  long,  long  years  ago  by 
the  pale  face  !  Look  !  The  old  man  weeps — he  loved  that  son — see  !  the 
i  ays  of  the  setting  sun  light  up  his  aged  brow — he  weeps  !  His  people  in 
vain  attempt  to  comfort  him.  "  My  son,  my  son"  he  cries,  "  who  shall 
lead  the  Ashantees  to  battle,  when  I  am  gathered  to  the  Kroalof  the  dead  ?' 
So  speaks  Ka-Loloo  king  of  the  Ashantees,  sitting  with  his  people  round 
him  at  his  palace  gate  !" 

—Laugh  if  you  please,  at  these  strange  memories  of  the  Negro,  but  I  assure 
you,  there  were  tears  in  the  rude  fellows  eyes,  even  as  he  stood  there  lean 
ing  against  the  porch. 

For  his  Father  was  a  King — he  was  the  Prince  of  three  thousand  war 
riors — he,  whose  native  name  was  now  lost  in  the  cognomen,  BLACK 
SAMPSON — had  been  sold  from  his  home  into  slavery. 

The  People  of  the  valley  of  Brandywine  knew  but  little  about  him. 
About  five  years  ago,  he  had  appeared  in  the  valley,  a  miserable  skeleton, 
covered  from  head  to  foot  with  scars.  It  was  supposed  that  he  was  a  slave 
from  the  far  south.  No  one  asked  his  history,  but  the  old  veteran,  even 
Jacob  Mayland,  gave  him  a  home.  Therefore,  Black  Sampson  clung  to 
the  memory  of  his  murdered  master  with  all  his  soul. 

The  day  began  to  dawn  ;  light  clouds  floating  over  the  eastern  horizon, 
saw  the  sun  approach,  and  caught  his  golden  smile  upon  their  snowy 
breasts. 

It  was  at  this  hour,  that  Black  Sampson,  leaning  against  the  porch  of  the 
murdered  man's  home,  beheld  a  strange  figure  come  slowly  over  the  sward, 
toward  him. 

Was  it  a  Ghost  ?  So  strangely  beautiful,  with  those  white  feet,  pressing 
the  soft  grass,  that  flowing  brown  hair  sweeping  over  the  bared  arms  ? 

At  a  second  glance,  he  recognized  the  daughter  of  the  schoolmaster,  warm 
and  lovable  and  bewitching  Mary  Mayland,  whom  Gotlieb  HofT,  the  rough 
farmer  loved  with  all  his  heart. 

Warm  and  lovable  and  bewitching  no  longer  !      For  she  came  with  her 

;    blue  eyes  fixed  and  glassy — she  came,  clad  in  her  night  dress  as  a  shroud 

— she  came,  the  image  of  a  Woman,  whose  dearest  hope  has  all  at  once 

been  wrecked,  whose  life  has  suddenly  been  transformed  from  a  garden  of 

virgin  hopes,  into  a  desert  of  blasted  ashes. 

Sampson  was  a  Negro — a  rude  man,  who  had  an  imperfect  idea  of  the 
Blessed  Saviour,  mingling  His  Religion  with  the  dreams  of  Pagan  supersti 
tion — and  yet,  as  he  beheld  this  pale  girl  come  slowly  toward  him,  with 
her  white  arms  folded  over  her  almost  pulseless  bosom,  he,  the  black  man, 
shuddered. 


BLACK   SAMPSON.  365 

Still  the  young  woman  came  on,  and  stood  before  him — a  miserable  wreck 
-telling  in  her  mad  way,  the  story  of  her  unutterable  wrong.  She  did 
not  see  Sampson,  for  her  glassy  eyes  looked  on  the  vacant  air,  but  still  she 
told  her  story,  making  the  honest  negro's  blood  run  cold  in  his  veins. 

— The  night  before  she  had  been  lured  from  her  home,  and .  The 

story  cannot  be  told.  All  that  we  can  know  is,  that  she  stands  before  us,  in 
the  light  of  the  breaking  day,  a  mad  and  ruined  girl.  In  her  ravings — oh, 
that  name  is  too  harsh  !  In  her  mild,  deep  voice,  she  told  the  story  of  her 
wrong,  and  murmured  the  name  of  Gilbert  Gates,  and  the  name  of  a  British 
officer. 

You  can  see  Sampson  start  forward,  gather  her  gently  in  his  rude  arms, 
and  place  her  quietly  on  the  seat  of  the  porch. 

"  Dis  am  berry  bad,  Missa  Polly — "  he  said,  and  you  will  remember  that 
he  spoke  very  uncouth  English — "  Enuf  to  break  a  nigga's  heart !  And 
dev  took  you  from  yer  home,  and " 

The  negro  did  not  utter  another  word,  for  he  saw  the  stout  form  of  Got- 
lieb  Hoff  coming  briskly  over  the  sod,  a  rifle  on  his  shoulder,  an  oaken  sprig 
in  the  band  of  his  hat.  Gotlieb  whistled  gaily  as  he  came,  his  light  curling 
hair  waving  about  his  ruddy  face. 

He  did  not  dream  of  the  agony  in  store  for  him. 

And  while  he  came,  the  poor  girl  sat  on  the  porch  of  her  Home,  folding 
her  white  arms  over  her  bosom,  and  muttering  in  that  low  deep  voice,  the 
story  of  her  wrong. 

The  negro  Black  Sampson,  could  not  endure  the  sight.  Even  as  Gotlieb 
came  gaily  on,  the  black  man  bounded  from  the  porch,  and  hastened  toward 
yonder  barn. 

If  he — the  negro—turned  away  from  the  agony  of  this  meeting  between 
ths  Plighted  Husband  and  his  Ruined  Bride,  shall  we  take  hearts  of  stone 
to  our  bosoms,  and  gaze  upon  the  horror  of  that  interview  ? 

Black  Sampson  approached  the  barn  whose  walls  of  logs  you  see  piled 
up  yonder,  on  the  side  of  the  hill. 

He  opened  a  narrow  door  and  called  for  his  dog.  The  dog  bounded 
forth,  a  noble  animal,  in  shape  something  like  the  kingly  dogs  of  St. 
Bernard,  yet  white  as  the  driven  snow.  He  came  with  fierce  eyes  and 
formidable  teeth,  ears  and  head  erect,  and  crouched  low  at  his  master's 
feet. 

Then  Sampson  entered  the  barn,  and  in  a  moment  appeared,  holding  a 
scythe  in  his  right  arm.  He  wound  one  arm  around  the  handle,  and  with 
the  fingers  of  his  other  hand,  tested  the  sharpness  of  the  edge. 

Then  a  low,  deep,  yet  unnatural  chuckle  passed  the  African's  lips. 

"  Look  heah,  Debbil — "  that  was  the  name  of  his  dog — "  Hah,  yah  ! 
Sampson  am  gwain  a-mowin'  dis  day  !" 

The  dog  darted  up,  as  with  mingled  rage  and  joy. 

You  will  admit  that  Sampson's  movements  are  peculiar      In  order  to 


366        *   THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

understand  this  strange  magnetic  sympathy  between  the  master  and  the  dog 
let  us  follow  Sampson's  steps  into  the  barn. 

He  flings  open  the  large  door,  and  by  the  dim  morning  light  you  behold 
a  strange  object  in  the  centre  of  the  threshing  floor  among  heaps  of  straw. 

Is  it  a  man,  or  an  image  ? 

It  is  a  British  uniform,  stuffed  with  straw  and  glittering  with  epaulettes 
of  gold.  There  is  a  gay  chapeau  placed  on  the  shoulders  of  the  figure, 
military  boots  upon  its  legs. 

The  moment  that  *  Debbil '  beholds  it,  he  howls  with  ungovernable  rage, 
displays  his  teeth,  and  shoots  fire  from  his  eyes. 

But  Sampson  holds  him  by  the  collar,  talking  merrily  to  him  all  the 
while  — 

"  Look  heah  Debbil,  we  am  gwain  a-mowin'  dis  day  !  De  ye  know 
what  we  gwain  to  mow  ?  I  tells  ye.  De  night  afore  last,  de  dam  British, 

dey  burn  your  Massa  alive d'ye  hear  dat,  ye  stupid  Debbil  ?    Dis  berry 

hour  dey  abuse  your  young  Missus — you  understand  me  Debbil  ?  Dat's 
de  reason  we  am  gwain  a-mowin' !  Dat  is  !  An'  whenebber  ye  see  any- 
ting  like  dat  Debbil — "  pointing  to  the  figure — "  Den  at  'em  trote,  and  lap 
um  blood  !" 

He  loosed  the  collar  of  the  Dog  and  suffered  him  to  go. 
— You  hear  a  deep  howl,  you  see  the  dog  spring  forward.     Look !     His 
teeth  are  fixed  in  the  throat  of  the  figure  ;  he  tears  it,  drags  it,  crushes  it  in 
his  rage,  while  Black  Sampson  stands  laughing  by. 

Laughing  a  low,  deep  laugh,  that  has  something  else  than  mirth  in  its  tone. 

"  Dat's  de  way  we  am  gwain  a-mowin'  dis  day  !" 

He  turned  from  the  barn  followed  by  the  spotless  dog.  He  stood  amid 
the  cinders  of  the  burned  haystack,  where  his  master  had  died  in  bitter 
agony  the  night  before  last. 

Then,  while  the  armies  were  mustering  for  the  conflict,  while  over  the 
valley  of  the  Brandywine  the  Continentals  formed  in  columns,  their  starry 
banner  waving  overhead,  while  on  yonder  porch  Gotlieb  listens  to  the  story 
of  the  veteran's  child,  here,  on  this  circle  of  withered  grass,  Black  Sampson 
prepared  for  battle. 

The  manner  of  his  preparation  was  singular. 

The  sun  came  on — the  gleam  of  British  arms  shine  on  the  opposite  hills 
—the  battle  was  about  to  commence  its  Liturgy  of  yells  and  groans,  yet 
still  Sampson  stood  there,  in  the  centre  of  the  blasted  circle. 

On  the  very  spot  where  the  veteran's  bones  had  laid,  he  stood. 

Muttering  again  that  terrible  oath  of  vengeance  to  his  Moloch  God,  he 
first  stripped  from  his  form  his  coat  of  coarse  homespun.  Then,  with  his 
broad,  black  chest  glittering  in  the  sunlight,  he  wound  his  right  arm  around 
the  handle  of  his  scythe. 

He  la^d  the  other  hand  upon  the  head  of  his  dog.  His  eye  gleamed  with 
deadly  light. 


BLACK   SAMPSON.  367 

Thus,  scythe  in  hand,  his  dog  by  his  side,  his  form,  in  all  its  herculean 
proportion,  bared  to  the  waist,  Black  Sampson  stood  prepared  for  battle. 

Look  yonder  over  the  valley  !  Behold  that  sweep  of  level  meadow,  that 
rippling  stream  of  water.  On  these  eastern  hills,  you  see  the  men  of  Mad 
Anthony  Wayne,  ranged  in  battle-order.  Yonder,  from  the  western  woods, 
the  gleam  of  Kniphausen's  arms,  shoots  gaily  over  the  leaves, 

Suddenly  there  is  a  sound  like  thunder,  then  white  columns  of  smoke, 
then  a  noise  of  trampling  hoofs. 

Black  Sampson  hears  that  thunder  and  quivers  from  head  to  foot.  He 
sees  the  white  smoke,  and  lifts  his  scythe.  The  trampling  hoofs  he  hears, 
and  speaks  to  his  dog — "  Debbil,  dis  day  we  am  gvvain  a-mowin'  !" 

But  then,  through  the  clamor  of  battle,  there  comes  a  long  and  ringing 
cry.  It  is  the  battle-shout  of  Anthony  Wayne. 

Black  Sampson  hears  it,  darts  forward,  and  with  his  dt>g  by  his  side, 
rushes  into  the  folds  of  the  battle-smoke. 

You  see  him  yonder,  far  down  the  valley,  you  see  him  yonder,  in  the 
midst  of  the  stream  ;  now  he  is  gone  among  the  clouds,  now  he  comes  forth 
again,  now  the  whirlpool  of  battle  shuts  him  in.  Still  the  white  dog  is  by 
his  side,  still  that  scythe  gleams  aloft.  Does  it  fall  ? 

At  last,  yonder  on  the  banks  of  the  Brandy  wine,  where  a  gush  of  sunlight 
pours  through  the  battle-clouds,  you  see  Black  Sampson  stand.  A  strange 
change  has  passed  over  himself,  his  scythe,  his  dog.  All  have  changed 
color.  The  color  they  wear  is  a  fiery  red — look  !  You  can  see  it  drip 
from  the  scythe,  crimson  Sampson's  chest  and  arms,  and  stain  with  gory 
patches,  the  white  fur  of  his  dog. 

And  the  word  that  Sampson  said,  as  he  patted  his  noble  dog,  was  some 
thing  like  this  : 

"  Dat  counts  one  for  Massa  !" 

Had  the  scythe  fallen  ?     Had  the  dog  hunted  his  game  ? 

Through  the  entire  battle  of  Brandywine,  which  began  at  break  of  day, 
and  spent  its  last  shot  when  the  night  set  in,  and  the  stars  came  smiling  out 
upon  the  scene  of  murder,  that  Black  Hercules  was  seen,  companioned  by 
his  white  dog,  the  sharp  scythe  flashing  in  dazzling  circles  above  his  head. 

On  the  plain  or  meadow,  extending  in  a  lake  of  verdure  where  the  battle 
begun  ;  four  miles  away  in  the  graveyard  of  the  Quaker  Meeting  house, 
where  thousands  of  contending  foemen,  fought  until  the  sod  was  slippery 
with  blood  ;  at  noon,  at  night,  always  rushing  forward  that  Negro  was  seen, 
irmed  only  with  a  sharp  scythe,  his  only  comrade  a  white  dog,  spotted 
with  flakes  of  blood. 

And  the  war-cry  that  he  ever  shouted,  was  in  his  rude  way — 

**  Dat  counts  one  for  Masea,  Debbil !" 

Whenever  he  said  this,  ihe  dog  howled,  and  there  was  another  mangleu 
corse  upon  the  ground. 


368  THE   BATTLE    OF    BRANDYWIXE. 

The  British  soldiers  saw  him  come — his  broad  black  chest  gleaming  in 
the  sun — his  strange  weapon  glittering  overlie  ui — his  white  dog  yelling  by 
nis  side,  and  as  they  looked  they  felt  their  hearts  grow  cold,  and  turned 
from  his  path  with  fear.     Yes  fear,  for  with  a  superstition  not  unnatural, 
they  thought  they  beheld,  not  a  warrior  armed  for  the  fight,  but  a  DemonJ  / 
created  by  the  horror  of  battle,  rushing  on   with  the  fiend-animal  by  his  ' 
side. 

Many  a  British  throat  that  had  been  fondly  pressed  by  the  hands  of 
mother,  wife,  or  sister,  that  day  felt  the  teeth  of  the  white  dog  !  Many  u 
British  eye  that  had  gazed  undismayed  into  the  muzzle  of  American  can 
non,  quailed  with  involuntary  cowardice  at  the  sight  of  that  circling  scythe. 
Many  a  British  heart  that  had  often  beat  with  mad  pulsations,  in  the  hour 
when  American  homes  had  been  desolated,  American  fathers  murdered, 
American  mothers  outraged,  that  day  lay  cold  in  the  bosom  which  was 
pressed  by  the  foot  of  Black  Sampson,  the  Prince  of  the  Ashantee. 

Do  not  impute  to  me  a  morbid  appetite  for  scenes  of  blood.  I  might 
pourtray  to  you  in  all  their  horrors,  the  several  deaths  of  the  murderers  of 
Jacob  Mayland,  the  veteran  of  Braddock's  war.  How  this  one  was  hurled 
from  his  horse  by  the  white  dog,  while  the  scythe  of  Sampson  performed 
its  terrible  office.  How  another,  pursuing  the  Americans  at  the  head  of 
his  men,  uttered  the  shout  of  victory,  and  then  heard  the  howl  of  the  dog 
and  died.  How  a  third  gentleman,  while  in  the  act  of  listening  to  my  Lord 
Cornwallis,  (who  always  went  out  to  murder  in  clean  ruffles  and  a  wig, 
perfumed  with  Marechale  powder,)  was  startled  by  the  apparition  of  a 
giant  negro,  a  whirling  scythe,  a  white  dog  crimsoned  with  blood,  and  how 
when  he  saw  this  apparition  a  moment  only,  he  never  saw  or  felt  anything 
more. 

But  I  will  not  do  it.  My  only  object  is  to  impress  upon  your  minds, 
my  friends — for  sitting  alone  in  my  room,  with  but  this  pen  in  my  hand,  I 
can  talk  to  you  all ;  you,  the  half-a-million  readers  of  this  page  and  call  you 
friends — the  idea  of  Black  Sampson's  conduct,  his  religion,  his  ruling 
motive. 

It  was  this  :  The  old  man  Mayland  and  his  daughter,  had  been  very 
kind  to  him.  To  them  in  his  rude  negro  heart,  he  had  sworn  eternal 
fidelity.  In  his  rude  African  religion,  to  revenge  the  death  of  a  friend, 
was  not  only  a  duty,  but  a  solemn  injunction  from  the  lips  of  the  dead. 

Therefore  arming  himself  but  with  a  scythe,  he  called  his  dog,  and  went 
out  to  hunt  Englishmen,  as  he  had  often  hunted  wild  beasts. 

Pass  we  then  the  carnage  of  that  fearful  day. 

It  was  in  the  calm  of  twilight,  when  that  sweet  valley  of  Brandy  wine 
looks  as  lovely  as  a  young  bride,  trembling  on  the  threshold  of  the  Bridal 
Chamber — a  blushing,  joyous,  solemn  thing,  half-light,  half-shadow — that  a 
rude  figure  stumbled  into  a  room,  where  a  dead  woman  lay. 


BLACK   SAMPSON.  3ti9 

It  was  in  a  house  near  Dilworth  corner,  one  or  two  miles  from  the  ba;- 
ile-fielcl  of  the  meeting  house. 

A  quiet  chamber  filled  with  silent  people,  with  hushed  breath  and  deeply 
saddened  faces,  and  the  softened  glow  of  a  glorious  sunset  pouring  through 
the  closed  curtains  of  yonder  window. 

Those  people  gathered  round  a  bed,  whose  snow-white  coverlet  caught  a 
fiu-sh  of  gold  from  the  setting  sun.  Stout  men  were  in  that  crowd,  men 
who  had  done  brave  work  in  that  day's  battle,  and  tender  girls  who  were 
looking  forward  with  hope  to  a  future  life  of  calm,  home-born  joys,  and 
aged  matrons,  who  had  counted  the  years  of  their  lives  by  the  burial  of  dear 
friends.  These  all  were  there. 

And  there  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  stood  a  man  in  the  dress  of  a  farmer,  his 
frank  honest  face,  stained  with  blood,  his  curling  hair  curling  no  longer,  b  it 
stiffened  with  clotted  gore.  He  had  been  in  battle,  Gotlieb  Hoff  striving 
earnestly  to  do  some  justice  on  these  British  spoilers,  and  now  at  the  even 
ing  hour — after  scenes  that  I  may  picture  at  some  future  time — came  to 
look  upon  the  burden  of  that  bed. 

It  was  no  wonder  that  honest  Gotlieb  muttered  certain  mad  sentences,  in 
broken  English,  as  he  gazed  upon  this  sight* 

For  believe  me  had  you  been  there,  you  would  have  felt  your  senses 
gliding  from  you  at  that  vision.  It  was  indeed,  a  pitiful  sight. 

She  looked  so  beautiful  as  she  lay  there  upon  the  bed.  The  hands  that 
were  gently  clasped,  and  the  bosom  that  had  heaved  its  last  throb,  and  the 

clojed  eyelids  that  were  never  to  open  more,  and you  see  they  wept 

there,  all  of  them,  for  she  looked  so  sadly  beautiful  as  she  lay  dead,  even 
Mary  swset  gentle  lovable  Mary,  with  the  waving  brown  hair  and  the 
laughing  bhe  eyes. 

She  was  dead  now.  About  the  hour  of  noon  when  the  battle  raged  most 
horribly,  the  last  chord  of  her  brain  snapt,  and  on  the  altar  of  her  outraged 
life  the  last  fire  went  out.  She  was  dead,  and  O,  she  wore  the  saddest, 
sweetest  smile  about  her  young  face  as  she  lay  there,  that  you  ever  saw. 

That  was  what  made  them  weep.  To  have  looked  stiff  and  cold  and 
dismal,  would  have  seemed  more  like  Death,  but  to  smile  thus  upon  them 
all,  when  her  honor,  her  reason,  her  life,  had  all  in  one  hour  been  trampled 
into  nothingness,  to  smile  thus  peacefully  and  forgivingly  as  she  lay  dead, 
in  her  simple  night-dress — ah!  It  cut  every  heart  with  a  sudden  sharp 
pain,  and  made  the  eyes  overflow  with  bitter  tears. 

I  have  said  that  a  rude  figure  stumbled  into  a  room,  where  a  dead 
woman  lay. 

Yes,  in  the  very  moment  when  the  last  ray  of  the  sun — that  never  more 
should  rise  upon  the  dead  girl — was  kissing  her  closed  lids  as  if  in  pity, 
there  came  a  rude  figure,  breasting  his  way  through  the  spectators. 

Black  and  grim — almost  horrible  to  look  upon — bleeding  from  many 
wounds,  the  scythe  in  his  hand,  Sampson  stood  there.  He  looked  long  and 


370  THE  BATTLE    OF  BRANDY  WINE. 

fixedly  upon  the  dead  girl.  They  could  see  a  tremulous  motion  at  hi» 
nostrils,  a  convulsive  quivering  about  his  mouth. 

At  last  with  an  oath — and  O,  forgive  it  kind  Heaven,  for  it  was  but 
sworn  to  hide  the  sincere  feeling  of  his  heart — he  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
head  of  the  dog,  which  had  crept  silently  to  his  side,  and  told  the  faithful 
animal 

"  Debbil  you  am  a  rale  brute,  and  no  mistake  !  Dars  Missa  Maylan' 
layin'  dead — stone  dead — she  dat  feed  you  and  your  Massa,  many  a  hunder 
time — and  you  no  cry  one  dam'  tear  !" 

Two  large  tears  rolled  down  his  face  as  he  spoke,  and  the  last  sunbeam 
kissed  the  eyelids  of  the  dead  girl,  and  was  gone. 

Some  three  or  four  years  since,  a  ploughshare  that  upturned  the  soil 
where  a  forest  had  stood  in  the  Revolution,  uncovered  the  grave  of  some 
unknown  man.  In  that  grave  were  discovered  the  skeleton  of  a  human  be 
ing,  the  bones  of  an  animal,  and  the  rusted  and  blood-clotted  blade  of  a  scythe. 

Did  the  hand  of  the  Avenger  ever  strike  the  tinselled  wretch  who  had 
crushed  into  dishonor,  the  peasant-girl  of  Brandy  wine  ? 

Even  in  the  presence  of  Washington,  while  encircling  the  Chieftain  with 
British  soldiers  he  fell,  stricken  down  by  the  quiet  Gilbert  Gates,  who  whis 
pered  in  his  freezing  ear  "  Thou  didst  dishonor  her — thou,  that  hadst  no 
father's  blood  to  avenge  !" 

As  the  handsome  Captain  writhed  in  the  dust — Washington  amazed,  the 
British  soldiers  maddened  by  the  sight — the  pretended  Quaker  true  to  his 
instinct  of  falsehood,  whispered  to  the  one,  «*  Washington  I  have  saved 
thee  !"  and  to  the  others — "  Behold  the  order  of  friend  Corawallis,  com 
manding  this  deed  !" 

Need  we  gaze  upon  the  fate  of  this  strange  man,  Gilbert  Gates  the  Son 
of  the  Hunter-Spy  ?  His  crimes,  his  oath,  his  life,  were  all  dyed  with  in 
nocent  blood,  but  the  last  scene  which  closed  the  page  of  this  world  to  him 
forever,  is  too  dark  and  bloody  to  be  told. 

In  a  dim  nook  of  the  woods  of  Brandywine,  two  vigorous  hickory  trees 
bending  over  a  pool  of  water,  in  opposite  directions,  had  been  forced  by 
strong  cords  together,  and  firmly  joined  into  one.  Those  cords  once 
separated — the  knot  which  combined  them  once  untied — it  was  plainly  to 
be  seen  that  the  hickorv  trees  would  spring  back  to  their  natural  position, 
with  a  terrific  rebound. 

The  knot  was  untied  by  a  rifle-ball.  But  the  moment,  ere  the  trees 
sprung  apart  with  a  sound  like  thunder,  you  might  see  a  human  form  lashed 
by  the  arms  and  limbs,  to  their  separate  branches. 

It  was  the  form  of  Gilbert  Gates,  the  Son  of  the  Hunter-Spy.  The  ball 
that  untied  the  knot,  was  sped  from  the  rifle  of  Gotlieb  Hoff,  the  plighted 
\ausband  of  the  dishonored  girl. 


BLACK   SAMPSON.  371 

We  have  followed  to  its  end,  the  strange  and  varied  career  of  Gilbert 
(rates,  the  False  Quaker  of  Brandywine.  Now  let  us  look  upon  a  Friend 
of  another  kind.  The  day  before  the  battle,  there  stood  in  the  shadows 
of  the  forest,  at  a  point  where  two  roads  met,  a  man  of  some  fifty-eight 
years,  one  hand  resting  on  the  bridle-rein  of  his  well-fed  nag,  and  the  other 
pressed  against  his  massive  brow.  He  was  clad  in  the  Quaker  dress.  A 
man  of  almost  giant  stature,  his  muscular  limbs  clad  in  sober  drab,  his 
ruddy  face  and  snow-white  hairs  crowned  by  a  broad-rimmed  hat.  The 
leaves  formed  a  canopy  above  his  head,  as  he  stood  wrapped  in  deep  and 
exciting  thoughts,  while  his  sleek,  black  horse — a  long  known  and  favorite 
animal — bending  his  neck,  cropped  the  fragrant  wild  grass  at  his  feet. 

The  stout  Quaker  felt  the  throes  of  a  strange  mental  contest  quivering 
through  his  veins.  The  father  butchered  by  his  hearthstone,  the  mother  dis 
honored  in  the  presence  of  her  children,  the  home  in  flames,  and  the  hearth  a 
Golgotha — -these  are  not  very  Christian  sights,  and  yet  the  old  Quaker  had 
seen  them  all.  And  now  with  his  heart  torn  by  the  contest  between  his 
principles  and  his  impulses, — his  principles  were  *  Peace .'',  his  impulses 
shrieked  «  Washington .'' — he  had  come  here  to  the  silent  woods  to  think 
the  matter  over.  He  wished  to  shoulder  a  rifle  in  the  Army  of  freedom, 
but  the  principles  of  his  life  and  creed  forbade  the  thought.  After  much 
thought,  and  it  must  be  said,  severe  though  silent  Prayer,  the  stout  Quaker 
resolved  to  test  the  question  by  a  resort  to  the  ancient  method  of  ordeal  or 
lottery.  "  Now,"  said  he,  as  the  sunlight  played  with  his  white  hairs — "  I 
stand  here,  alone  in  the  woods,  where  two  roads  meet.  I  will  turn  my  favorite 
horse,  even  Billy,  loose,  to  go  wherever  he  pleaseth.  If  he  takes  the  road 
on  the  right,  I  will  get  me  a  rifle  and  join  the  Camp  of  Friend  Washington. 
But  in  case  he  takes  the  road  on  the  left,  I  will  even  go  home,  and  mind 
my  own  business.  Now,  Billy,  thee  is  free — go  where  it  pleaseth  thee — 
and  mind  what  thee's  about !" 

The  loosened  rein  fell  dangling  on  Billy's  sleek  neck.  The  patriotic 
friend  beheld  him  hesitate  on  the  point  where  the  two  paths  joined  ;  he 
saw  him  roll  his  large  eyes  lazily  from  side  to  side,  and  then  slowly  saun 
ter  toward  the  road  on  the  left — the  •  Home  '  road. 

As  quick  as  thought,  the  stout  Quaker  started  forward,  and  gave  the  rein 
almost  imperceptible,  but  powerful  inclination  toward  the  *  Washington 
Road,'  exclaiming  in  deprecatory  tones — "  Now  thee  stupid  thing!  1 
verity  thought  thee  had  better  sense  /" 

Whether  the  words  or  the  sudden  movement  of  the  Quaker's  hand, 
worked  a  change  in  Billy's  mind,  we  cannot  tell,  but  certain  it  is,  that  while 
the  grave  Friend,  with  his  hands  dropped  by  his  side,  calmly  watched  the 
result,  the  sagacious  horse  changed  his  course,  and  entered  the  *  Washing 
ton  road.' 

"  Verily,  it  is  ordered  so  !"  was  the  quiet  ejaculation  of  the  Quaker,  as 
he  took  his  way  to  the  camp  of  Washington.  We  need  not  say,  that  r* 
did  a  brave  work  in  the  battle  of  Brandy  wine- 


372  THE    BATTLE   OF   BRANDYWINE. 


XVIII.— THE  MECHANIC  HERO  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

NEAR  Dilworth  corner,  at  the  tinue  of  the  Revolution,  there  stood  a  quiet 
cottage,  somewhat  retired  from  the  road,  under  the  shade  of  a  stout  chesnut 
tree.  It  was  a  quiet  cottage,  nestling  away  there  in  one  corner  of  the  forest 
road,  a  dear  home  in  the  wilderness,  with  sloping  roof,  walls  of  dark  grey 
stone,  and  a  casement  hidden  among  vines  and  flowers. 

On  one  side,  amid  an  interval  of  the  forest  trees,  was  seen  the  rough 
outline  of  a  blacksmith's  shop.  There  was  a  small  garden  in  front,  with  a 
brown  gravelled  walk,  and  beds  of  wild  flowers. 

Here,  at  the  time  of  the  Revolution,  there  dwelt  a  stout  blacksmith,  his 
young  wife  and  her  babe. — What  cared  that  blacksmith,  working  away  the/e 
in  that  shadowy  nook  of  the  forest,  for  war  ?  What  feared  he  for  the  peril 
of  the  times,  so  long  as  his  strong  arm,  ringing  that  hammer  on  the  anvil, 
might  gain  bread  for  his  wife  and  child  ! 

Ah,  he  cared  little  for  war,  he  took  little  note  of  the  panic  that  shook  the 
valley,  when  some  few  mornings  before  the  battle  of  the  Brandy  wine,  while 
shoeing  the  horse  of  a  Tory  Refugee,  he  overheard  a  plot  for  the  surprise 
and  capture  of  Washington.  The  American  leader  was  to  be  lured  into  the 
toils  of  the  tories  ;  his  person  once  in  the  British  camp,  the  English  General 
might  send  the  "  Traitor  Washington"  home,  to  be  tried  in  London. 

Now  our  blacksmith,  working  away  there,  in  that  dim  nook  of  the  forest, 
without  caring  for  battle  or  war,  had  still  a  sneaking  kindness  for  this  Mister 
Washington,  whose  name  rung  on  the  lips  of  all  men.  So  one  night,  bid 
ding  his  young  wife  a  hasty  good-bye,  and  kissing  the  babe  that  reposed  on 
her  bosom,  smiling  as  it  slept,  he  hurried  away  to  the  American  camp,  and 
told  his  story  to  Washington. 

It  was  morning  ere  he  came  back.     It  was  in  the  dimness  of  the  autum 
nal  morning,  that  the  blacksmith  was  plodding  his  way,  along  the  forest 
road.     Some  few  paces  ahead  there  was  an  aged  oak,  standing  out  into  the 
road — a  grim  old  veteran  of  the  forest,  that  had  stood  the  shocks  of  three 
hundred  years.     Right  beyond  that  oak  was  the  blacksmith's  home. 

With  this  thought  warming  his  heart,  he  hurried  on.  He  hurried  on, 
thinking  of  the  calm  young  face  and  mild  blue  eyes  of  that  wife,  who,  the 
night  before,  had  stood  in  the  cottage  door,  waving  him  out  of  sight  with  a 
beckoned  good-bye — thinking  of  the  baby,  that  lay  smiling  as  it  slept  upon 
her  bosom,  he  hurried  on — he  turned  the  bend  of  the  wood,  he  looked  upon 
nis  home. 

Ah  !  what  a  sight  was  there  ! 

Where,  the  night  before,  he  had  left  a  peaceful  cottage,  smiling  under  a 
green  chesnut  tree,  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  now  was  only  a  heap  of 
black  and  smoking  embers  and  a  burnt  and  blasted  tree  ! 

This  was  his  home  ' 


THE  MECHANIC  HERO  OF  BRANDYWINE.  373 

And  there  stood  the  blacksmith  gazing  upon  that  wreck  of  his  hearth 
stone  ; — there  he  stood  with  folded  arms  and  moody  brow,  but  in  a  moment 
a  smile  broke  over  his  face. 

He  saw  it  all.  In  the  night  his  home  had  taken  fire,  and  been  burned  to 
cinders  But  his  wife,  his  child  had  escaped.  For  that  he  thanked  God. 

With  the  toil  of  his  stout  arm,  plying  there  on  the  anvil,  he  would  build 
a  fairer  home  for  wife  and  child  ;  fresh  flowers  should  bloom  over  the 
garden  walks,  and  more  lovely  vines  trail  along  the  casement. 

With  this  resolve  kindling  over  his  face,  the  blacksmith  stood  there,  with 

a  cheerful  light  beaming  from  his  large  grey  eyes,  when a  hand  was 

laid  upon  his  shoulder 

He  turned  and  beheld  the  face  of  a  neighbor. 

It  was  a  neighbor's  face  ;  but  there  was  an  awful  agony  stamping  those 
plain  features — there  was  an  awful  agony  flashing  from  those  dilating  eyes 
— there  was  a  dark  and  a  terrible  mystery  speaking  from  those  thin  lips, 
that  moved,  but  made  no  sound. 

For  a  moment  that  farmer  tried  to  speak  the  horror  that  convulsed  his 
features. 

At  last,  forcing  the  blacksmith  along  the  brown  gravelled  walk,  now  strewn 
with  cinders,  he  pointed  to  the  smoking  embers.  There,  there — amid  that 
heap  of  black  and  smoking  ruins,  the  blacksmith  beheld  a  dark  mass  of 
burnt  flesh  and  blackened  bones. 

"Your  wife!"  shrieked  the  farmer,  as  his  agony  found  words.  "The 
British  they  came  in  the  night  they" — —and  then  he  spoke  that  outrage, 
which  the  lip  quivers  to  think  on,  which  the  heart  grows  palsied  to  tell — 
that  outrage  too  foul  to  name — "  Your  wife,"  he  shrieked,  pointing  to  that 
hideous  thing  amid  the  smoking  ruins  ;  "  the  British  they  murdered  your 
wife,  they  flung  her  dead  body  in  the  flames — they  dashed  your  child 
against  the  hearthstone  !" 

This  was  the  farmer's  story. 

And  there,  as  the  light  of  the  breaking  day  fell  around  the  spot,  there 
stood  the  husband,  the  father,  gazing  upon  that  mass  of  burned  flesh  and 
blackened  bones — all  that  was  once  Ms  wife. 

Do  you  ask  me  for  the  words  that  trembled  from  his  white  lips  ?  Do 
you  ask  me  for  the  fire  that  blazed  in  his  eye  ? 

I  cannot  tell  you.  But  I  can  tell  you  that  there  was  a  vow  going  up  to 
Heaven  from  that  blacksmith's  heart ;  that  there  was  a  clenched  hand,  up 
raised,  in  the  light  of  the  breaking  day  ! 

Yes,  yes,  as  the  first  gleam  of  the  autumnal  dawn  broke  around  the  spot, 
as  the  first  long  gleam  of  sunlight  streamed  over  the  peeled  skull  of  that 
fair  young  wife — she  was  that  last  night — there  was  a  vow  going  up  to 
Heaven,  the  vow  of  a  maddened  heart  and  anguished  brain. 

How  was  that  vow  kept?  Go  there  to  Brandy  wine,  and  where  the  car 
nage  gathers  thickest,  where  the  fight  is  most  bloody,  there  you  may  see  a 


374  THE   BATTLE    OF    BRANDYWINE. 

stout  form  striding  on,  lifting  a  huge  hammer  into  light.  Where  that  ham 
mer  falls,  it  kills — where  that  hammer  strikes,  it  crushes  !  it  is  the  black 
smith's  form.  And  the  war-cry  that  he  shouts  ?  It  is  a  mad  cry  of  ven 
geance — half  howl,  half  hurrah  ?  Is  it  but  a  fierce  yell,  breaking  up  from 
his  heaving  chest? 

Ah  no  !  Ah  no  ! 

It  is  the  name  of — MARY  !     It  is  the  name  of  his  young  wife  ! 

Oh,  Mary — sweetest  name  of  women — name  so  soft,  so  rippling,  so  musi- 
cal — name  of  the  Mother  of  Jesus,  made  holy  by  poetry  and  religion — 
how  strangely  did  your  syllables  of  music  ring  out  from  that  blacksmith's 
lips,  as  he  went  murdering  on ! 

"Mary  !"  he  shouts,  as  he  drags  that  red-coated  trooper  from  his  steed : 
"  Mary !"  he  shrieks,  as  his  hammer  crashes  down,  laying  that  officer  in 
the  dust.  Look  !  Another  officer,  with  a  gallant  face  and  form — another 
officer,  glittering  in  tinsel,  clasps  that  blacksmith  by  the  knees,  and  begs 
mercy. 

"  I  have  a  wife — mercy  !  I  have  a  wife  yonder  in  England — spare 
me !" 

The  blacksmith,  crazed  as  he  is,  trembles — there  is  a  tear  in  his  eye. 

*«  I  would  spare  you,  but  there  is  a  form  before  me — the  form  of  my 
dead  wife  !  That  form  has  gone  before  me  all  day  !  She  calls  on  me  to 
strike  !" 

And  the  hammer  fell,  and  then  rang  out  that  strange  war-cry — "  Mary  !" 

At  last,  when  the  battle  was  over,  he  was  found  by  a  wagoner,  who  had 
at  least  shouldered  a  cartwhip  in  his  country's  service — he  was  found  sitting 
by  the  roadside,  his  head  sunken,  his  leg  broken — the  life  blood  welling 
from  his  many  wounds. 

The  wagoner  would  have  carried  him  from  the  field,  but  the  stout  black 
smith  refused. 

"  You  see,  neighbor,"  he  said,  in  that  voice  husky  with  death,  "  I  never 

meddled  with  the  British  till  they  burned  by  home,  till  they "  he  could 

not  speak  the  outrage,  but  his  wife  and  child  were  there  before  his  dying 
eyes — «*  And  now  I've  but  five  minutes'  life  in  me.  I'd  like  to  give  a  shot 
at  the  British  afore  I  die.  D'ye  see  that  cherry  tree  ?  D'ye  think  you 
could  drag  a  man  of  my  build  up  thar  ?  Place  me  thar ;  give  me  a  powder- 
horn,  three  rifle  balls  an'  a  good  rifle ;  that's  all  I  ask." 

The  wagoner  granted  his  request;  he  lifted  him  to  the  foot  of  the  cherry 
free  ;  he  placed  the  rifle,  the  balls,  the  powder-horn  in  his  grasp. 

Then  whipping  his  horses  through  the  narrow  pass,  from  the  summit  of 
t  neighboring  height,  he  looked  down  upon  the  last  scene  of  the  black 
smith's  life. ' 

There  lay  the  stout  man,  at  the  foot  of  the  cherry  tree,  his  head,  his 
broken  leg  hanging  over  the  roadside  bank.  The  blood  was  streaming  from 
his  wounds — he  was  dying. 


ANTHONY    WAYNE   AT    BRANDY  WINE  37*. 

Suddenly  he  raised  his  head  —  a  sound  struck  on  his  ears.  A  party  of 
British  came  rushing  along  the  narrow  road,  mad  with  carnage  and  thirsting 
lor  blood.  They  pursued  a  scattered  band  of  Continentals.  An  officer  led 
the  way,  waving  them  on  with  his  sword. 

The  blacksmith  loaded  his  rifle  ;  with  that  eye  bright  with  death  he  took 
the  aim.  "  That's  for  Washington!"  he  shouted  as  he  fired.  The  officer 
lay  quivering  in  the  roadside  dust.  On  and  on  came  the  British,  nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  cherry  tree  —  the  Continentals  swept  through  the  pass.  Again 
the  blacksmith  loaded  —  again  he  fired.  "  That's  for  mad  Anthony  Wayne  !" 
he  shouted  as  another  officer  bit  the  sod. 

The  British  now  came  rushing  to  the  cherry  tree,  determined  to  cut 
down  the  wounded  man,  who  with  his  face  toward  them,  bleeding  as  he 
was,  dealt  deatli  among  their  ranks.  A  fair-visaged  officer,  with  golden 
hair  waving  on  the  wind,  led  them  on. 

The  blacksmith  raised  his  rifle  ;  with  that  hand  stiffening  in  death,  Ke 
took  the  aim  —  he  fired  —  the  young  Briton  fell  with  a  sudden  shriek. 

"  And  that,"  cried  the  blacksmith,  in  a  voice  that  strengthened  intt  i 
shout,  "  and  that's  for  -  " 

His  voice  was  gone  !     The  shriek  died  on  his  white  lips. 

His  head  sunk  —  his  rifle  fell. 

A  single  word  bubbled  up  with  his  death  groan.  Even  now,  methinks»  ( 
hear  that  word,  echoing  and  trembling  there  among  the  rocks  of  Brand/ 
wine.  That  word  was  — 


XIX.  -ANTHONY  WAYNE  AT  BKANDYW1NE. 

Or?  a  cold  winter's  day  —  far  back  in  the  olden  time  —  in  front  of  a  rude 
stone  school-house,  that  arose  from  among  an  orchard,  whose  leafless 
branches  stood  out  against  the  clear  blue  sky,  a  crowd  of  school  boys 
might  have  been  seen  hurrying  to  and  fro,  in  all  the  excitement  of  battle. 

Their  cheeks  glowed  crimson  with  the  fever  of  the  fight,  as  armed  with 
little  globes  of  snow,  they  raised  their  battle  shout,  they  met  in  conflict, 
now  rallying  here,  now  retreating  yonder,  one  party  defending  the  entrench 
ments  of  ice  and  snow,  while  another  band  came  on,  the  forlorn  hope  of 
the  mimic  fray. 

It  was  true,  the  weapons  that  they  hurled,  the  fort,  which  was  at  once 
the  object  of  attack  and  defence,  were  all  of  frozen  snow,  yet  the  conflict 
was  carried  on  with  an  energy  and  skill  worthy  of  many  a  bloodier  fight. 

You  see  ths  fort,  rising  before  the  dark  school  -house  wall,  a  mound  ot 
ice,  over  a  waete  of  snow,  its  summit  lined  with  the  brave  defenders, 
while  the  forlorn  hope  of  the  enemy  come  rushing  to  the  conflict,  resolved 
to  force  tne  entrenchments  and  put  the  conquered  soldiers  to  the  sword. 
Not  sword  of  steel,  but  a  formidable  blade  carved  with  a  pen-knife  from  a 
branch  of  oak  or  hickory. 


376  THE   BAilLE   OF   BRANDY  WINE. 

The  hearty  shouts  of  the  combatants,  ring  out  upon  the  air,  their  cheeks 
flush,  their  eyes  fire  ;  the  contest  deepens  and  the  crisis  of  the  fight  is  near 

You  see  that  boy,  not  more  than  ten  years  old,  standing  erect  upon  the 
fortress  wall,  his  hazel  eyes  rolling  like  sparks  of  fire,  in  his  ruddy  face. 
while  his  curly  hair,  white  with  snowy  fragments,  is  blown  around  his  brow 
by  the  winter  wind  ?  • 

He  is  the  Master  Spirit  of  the  scene. 

He  urges  his  comrades  with  his  merry  shout,  now  bending  to  gather  new 
balls  of  snow,  now  hurling  them  in  the  face  of  the  enemy,  while  his  chest 
heaves,  expands,  his  nostrils  quiver,  his  lips  curl  with  the  excitement  ol 
the  hour. 

It  was  he  that  raised  this  fort,  and  leading  his  comrades  from  their  books, 
marshalled  them  in  battle  array. 

It  is  he,  that  retreating  behind  the  wall,  lures  the  enemy  to  the  attack, 
and  then  suddenly  starting  into  view,  with  flushed  cheeks  and  sparkling 
eyes,  shouts  the  word  of  command,  and  pours  confusion  in  their  ranks. 

Backed  by  his  comrades,  he  springs  from  the  fort — again  that  shout — one 
charge  more  and  the  day  is  ours !  Not  a  moment  does  he  allow  the  enemy 
to  recover  their  broken  ranks,  but  piles  the  snow  upon  their  heads,  and 
sends  the  battle  home.  The  air  is  thick  with  bombs  of  snow ;  a  frosty 
shower  whitens  their  cheeks,  and  dangles  in  glittering  gems  from  their 
waving  hair. 

Still  that  hearty  shout,  still  that  brave  boy  yi  front,  still  his  little  hands 
are  raised,  wielding  the  missiles  of  the  fight,  as  with  his  chest  heaving  and 
one  foot  advanced,  he  stands  upon  the  frozen  snow,  and  shouts  his  com 
rades  to  the  charge. 

The  enemy  break,  they  scatter,  they  fly  ! 

The  boy  with  the  clear  eye  of  hazel,  the  curling  hair  of  chesnut  brown, 
is  victor  of  the  field. 

You  may  smile  at  this  contest,  laugh  at  the  gloom  of  the  gruff  school 
master's  visage,  projecting  from  yonder  window,  and  yet  the  day  will  come, 
when  the  enraged  Pedagogue  will  hear  this  boy's  name  rung  in  the  lips  of 
the  nation,  as  the  hero  of  an  hundred  bloody  battles !  The  day  is  coming, 
when  that  little  hand  will  yield  an  iron  sword,  while  the  hazel  eye,  flaming 
from  a  face  bathed  in  sweat  and  blood,  will,  with  frenzied  joy,  survey  the 
mists,  the  glare,  the  hurrying  ranks,  the  awful  panorama  of  no  mimic  fight. 

Time  passed  on,  and  the  people  of  the  good  old  county  of  Chester  often 
noted,  a  stripling,  with  his  gun  on  his  shoulder,  wandering  through  the 
woods  of  Brandy  wine,  or  sitting  beside  these  still  waters,  holding  the  fishing 
rod,  from  the  brow  of  a  projecting  rock,  his  bare  feet  dipping  in  the  waves, 
as  his  hazel  eye  shone  with  visions  of  the  future. 

Time  passed  on,  and  there  came  a  day,  when  this  boy,  grown  to  man- 
hoou,  stood  on  the  summit  of  a  mound  that  rose  from  the  meadows  of  the 
3randywine. 


ANTHONY    WAYNE   AT   BRANDY  WINE.  37? 

it  was  in  the  early  morning  time,  when  the  light  of  the  stars  was  scarcely 
paled  by  the  glow  of  the  autumnal  dawn. 

Looking  from  the  height  of  the  fortified  knoll,  defended  by  a  deep  ditch 
and  grim  with  cannon,  General  Wayne  awaited  the  approach  of  the  enemy. 
Beneath  him  spread  the  valley,  gleaming  with  American  arms  ;  yonder 
rippled  the  stream,  so  soon  to  be  purpled  in  its  every  wave,  with  the  life- 
drops  of  human  hearts.  On  the  opposite  shore  of  the  Brandywine,  arose 
wooded  steeps,  towering  abruptly  from  the  bed  of  the  rivulet,  crowned  from 
the  ripple  to  the  sky  with  forest  trees. 

Wayne  stood  on  the  summit  of  the  knoll,  his  face  flushed  with  deep 
anxiety.  He  was  about  to  fight,  not  like  La  Fayette,  for  a  strange  people 
of  a  far  land,  not  like  Pulaski,  as  an  Exile  and  a  Wanderer,  nor  yet  liko 
Washington,  the  leader  of  a  People.  No  !  Surrounded  by  the  memories 
of  childhood,  his  foot  upon  his  native  soil,  his  chest  swelling  with  the  air 
that  came  rich  and  fragrant  over  the  orchards  of  his  native  valley,  he  had 
buckled  on  th  •  sword  to  fight  for  that  soil,  he  stood  prepared  to  spend  hia 
blood  in  defence  of  that  valley. 

By  his  side  stood  his  gallant  roan,  caparisoned  for  the  battle. 

Tradition  tells  us,  that  it  was  a  noble  steed,  with  small  head,  broad  chest 
and  tapering  limbs.  When  he  rushed  into  the  fight,  it  was  with  neck  arched, 
eye  rolling  in  fire,  and  dark  mane  quivering  on  the  battle  breeze.  But  when 
his  master's  shout  rung  on  the  air,  sounding  the  charge  which  mowed  the 
foemen  down  like  stubble  before  the  flame,  then  the  gallant  roan  uttered  his 
battle  neigh  and  went  through  the  smoke  and  into  the  fire  like  a  bomb  shell, 
hurled  from  the  mortar  along  the  darkened  sky. 

Wayne  stood  with  his  hand  resting  on  his  sword  hilt.  In  stature,  not 
more  than  an  inch  above  the  middle  heigth,  in  form  displaying  a  hardy 
energy,  an  iron  vigor  in  every  outline,  was  clad  in  a  blue  coat  faced  with 
buff,  and  falling  open  on  his  broad  chest.  There  was  a  belt  of  dark  leather 
over  his  breast,  military  boots  on  his  limbs,  a  plain  chapeau,  surmounted  by 
a  plume  of  mingled  red  and  white,  surmounted  his  brow. 

Beneath  that  plume  you  might  behold  the  broad  forehead,  the  aquiline 
nose,  the  clear,  deep  hazel  eyes.  It  was  the  face  of  a  warrior,  nurtured 
from  boyhood  to  love  the  blaze  of  cannon,  and  hail  the  clang  of  contending 
swords,  as  the  bridegroom  hails  the  marriage  music. 

Surrounded  by  his  brave  men,  Wayne  looked  upon  the  opposite  steep.s, 
and  looked  for  the  bayonets  of  the  foe. 

At  last  they  came.  By  the  first  gleam  of  morning  light,  he  saw  the 
Hessian  soldiers,  burly  in  form,  loaded  with  ornaments  and  armed  to  the 
teeth,  emerge  from  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  Their  heavy  accoutrements, 
their  lofty  caps,  bushy  with  fur,  their  well-filled  knapsacks,  were  all  clearly 
perceptible  in  the  morning  light.  And  the  same  sun  that  shone  over  their 
tayonets,  revealed  not  only  the  British  banner,  waving  slowly  in  the  morn* 
24 


378  THE   BATTLE    OF   BRANDY  WINE. 

ing  air,  but  the  flags  of  Hesse  and  Anspach  fluttering  above  their  hordes  of 
slaves. 

Wayne  beheld  them  come,  and  spoke  to  the  cannoniers,  arrayed  in  their 
faded  uniform  of  blue  and  buft*. 

In  a  moment,  those  cannon  at  his  feet  uttered  a  volume  of  smoke,  that 
rolled  in  folds  of  gloomy  grandeur,  high  upward  into  the  azure  heavens. 

He  spoke  to  the  Riflemen,  in  their  rude  hunting  shirts  of  blue,  with  the 
powder  horn  and  knife  at  their  sides. 

He  saw  them  rush  from  the  embankment,  he  beheld  them  overspread  the 
meadow.  Here,  the  steel  cap  of  Porterfield,  with  its  bucktail  plume,  there, 
the  short  sword  of  Maxwell,  gleaming  over  the  heads  of  his  men.  Bend 
ing  from  the  fortified  knoll,  Wayne  watched  their  career,  with  an  interest 
that  fired  his  eye  with  deeper  light. 

Over  the  meadow,  into  the  trees, — a  solitary  rifle  shot  yelled  on  the  air, 
a  solitary  death-groan  shrieked  into  the  clear  heavens. 

The  battle  had  begun. 

Then  crash  on  crash,  peal  on  peal,  the  bands  of  Maxwell  and  Porterfield 
poured  their  balls  into  the  faces  of  the  Hessian  foe. 

Wayne  beheld  them  glide  among  the  trees,  he  saw  the  enemy  recoil  in 
the  midst  of  the  waters,  he  heard  their  cries,  but  did  not  hear  the  shouts  of 
his  Riflemen.  For  these  Riflemen,  in  the  hour  of  battle,  scarcely  ever 
spoke  a  word  with  their  lips.  When  they  had  a  message  to  send,  it  spoke 
out  from  the  tubes  of  their  rifles.  And  these  rifles  always  spoke  to  the  heart ! 

For  the  first  time,  that  blue  sky  was  clouded  by  the  smoke  of  conflict. 
For  the  first  time,  the  groans  of  Christians  hewn  down  by  Christians,  yelled 
on  the  air.  For  the  first  time,  the  Brandywine  was  stained  with  blood  of 
the  white  man ;  for  the  first  time,  dead  men,  borne  onward  by  its  waves, 
with  t-heir  faces  to  the  light,  looked  up  with  glassy  eyes  and  glided  on  ! 

Wayne  beheld  it  all  ! 

While  the  Hessian  cannon  answered  to  his  own,  while  the  fire  from  this 
knoll  was  answered  by  the  blaze  yonder,  Wayne  bent  forward,  laid  his 
hand  on  the  neck  of  his' steed  and  watched  the  current  of  the  fight. 

He  was  about  to  spring  on  his  steed  and  rush  into  the  conflict,  when  he 
saw  his  Riflemen  come  out  from  the  woods  again,  their  arms  dimmed,  their 
faces  dabbled  with  blood.  They  had  driven  the  Hessians  back  step  by  step, 
foot  by  foot  they  had  hurled  them  back  upon  the  opposite  shore,  and  now 
while  the  water  dripped  from  their  attire,  silently  lined  the  banks,  awaiting 
the  next  onset  of  the  foe. 

The  morning  passed  away,  and  the  enemy  did  not  resume  their  attack. 
The^r  arms  gleamed  far  over  the  hills,  their  banners  waved  on  every  side, 
between  the  leaves  of  the  forest  oaks,  and  yet  they  dared  not  cross  the 
Brandywine  again.  Five  thousand  strong,  they  held  their  position  in  si 
lence,  planted  their  cannon,  arrayed  their  columns,  and  silently  prepared  the 
destruction  of  the  Rebel  Foe. 


ANTHONY  WAYNE  AT  BRANDYWINE.         379 

The  morning  passed.  Shaken  by  a  thousand  conflicting  emotions, 
Washington  hurried  along  the  eastern  heights  of  Brandy  wine,  nis  grey 
horse,  now  seen  among  the  trees  of  Brenton's  Ford,  now  darting  through 
the  battle-smoke  of  Chadd's  Ford,  now  halting  beside  the  gallant  roan  of 
Anthony  Wayne.  He  knew  not,  whether  the  attack  of  Kniphausen  was  a 
mere  feint ;  at  one  moment  he  anticipated  the  approach  of  the  British  in 
full  force,  eighteen  thousand  strong,  across  the  Brandy  wine,  at  another, 
turning  his  eye  away  from  the  waters  of  the  stream,  he  awaited  the  gleam 
of  Cornwallis'  arms,  from  the  northern  woods. 

Wayne  and  Washington  stood  on  the  summit  of  the  fortified  knoll,  talk 
ing  long  and  earnestly  together.  The  same  expression  of  suspense  and 
anxiety  animated  the  lineaments  of  each  warrior  face. 

The  morning  passed  away. 

Meanwhile,  pausing  on  their  arms,  the  Americans  awaited  the  renewal 
3f  the  attack,  but  they  waited  for  hours  in  vain.  It  was  not  made  when 
eleven  o'clock  came,  and  the  sun  was  rising  towards  his  noonday  height ; 
and  Sullivan  looked  anxiously  and  eagerly  from  the  heights  were  he  was 
stationed,  for  the  appearance  of  the  enemy  at  Brinton's  Ford,  but  they  came 
not ;  nor  could  his  scouts  give  him  any  intelligence  of  the  movements  of 
Howe  or  Cornwallis. 

General  Kniphausen,  he  well  knew,  had  made  the  attempt  to  cross  at 
Chadd's  Ford,  and  had  been  nobly  and  gallantly  repulsed ;  but  the  larger 
divisions  of  the  enemy — where  were  they?  What  was  their  plan  of  oper 
ations  ?  Where  would  Howe  appear,  or  in  what  quarter  would  Cornwallis 
commence  the  attack  ? 

All  was  wrapt  in  mystery  to  the  minds  of  Washington,  Wayne  and  the 
leader  of  his  right  wing.  This  silence  of  Howe  and  Cornwallis  they  feared 
had  something  of  omen — dark  and  fearful  omen — of  defeat  and  dismay,  for 
its  explanation. 

Eleven  o'clock  came,  and  Washington,  with  Sullivan  by  his  side,  stood 
gazing  from  an  elevated  knoll,  about  half-way  between  Briuton's  and  Chadd's 
Ford. 

A  horseman  was  observed  riding  up  the  hill-side  at  the  top  of  his  horse's 
speed.  His  attire  seemed  to  be  that  of  a  substantial  yeoman,  his  coat  hung 
on  his  arm,  his  hat  was  extended  in  his  upraised  hand;  his  dress  was  dis 
ordered,  his  face  covered  with  dust,  and,  as  he  rode  up  the  hill-side,  he  sank 
the  spurs  in  the  flanks  of  his  horse,  whose  eye  glared  wildly,  while  the 
dust  and  foam  on  his  limbs  showed  that  he  had  borne  his  master  long  and 
far. 

In  a  moment  the  horseman  flung  himself  from  his  horse,  and  rushed  to 
the  side  of  Washington.  In  hurried  words  he  told  his  story,  his  manner 
was  warm,  urgent  even  to  agony.  He  was  a  farmer — his  name  was  Chay- 
tor — lie  lived  some  miles  northward  of  Kennel's  Square — early  on  that 


380  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

morning  lie  had  been  aroused  by  the  tread  of  armed  men  and  the  tramp  of 
War  stee  Js. 

He  looked  from  his  window,  and  beheld  the  British  army  passing  north« 
ward — General  Howe  and  Lord  Cornwallis  were  with  them. 

He  believed  it  to  be  the  intention  of  the  enemy  to  make  the  passage  of 
the  Brandywine  at  Trimble's  Ford  and  Jeffrey's  Ford,  some  miles  above 
the  forks  of  the  river — to  occupy  the  high  hills  to  the  northward  of  Bir 
mingham  meeting-house,  and  thus  having  the  entire  right  wing  of  the  Con 
tinental  forces  laid  open  to  his  attack,  Howe  thought  he  might  accomplish 
an  easy  victory. 

This  was  the  story  of  the  farmer,  and  Washington  would  have  given  it 
credence,  were  it  not  for  one  fearful  doubt  that  darkened  over  his  mind. 
The  surrounding  country  swarmed  with  lories — might  not  this  be  a  tory 
spy  in  disguise  ?  He  discredited  the  story  of  the  farmer,  though  he  en 
forced  its  truth  by  an  appeal  to  an  oath,  and  even  continued  to  utter  it,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  yet  still  under  the  influence  of  this  fearful  suspicion, 
Washington  refused  his  credence  to  the  story  of  Farmer  Chaytor.  This 
mistake  lost  the  battle  of  the  Brandywine. 

Soon  after  this  incident,  Sullivan  received  information  by  the  hands  of 
Lieutenant  Colonel  Ross,  that  the  enemy  had  just  passed  the  forks  of  the 
Brandywine,  some  two  or  three  miles  above  the  Fork,  five  thousand  strong, 
and  provided  with  sixteen  or  eighteen  field  pieces. 

No  sooner  was  this  information  transmitted  to  Washington,  than  he 
or.lered  Sullivan  to  advance  towards  the  Forks,  and  attack  this  division  of 
the  enemy.  But  as  Sullivan  is  about  to  undertake  this  movement,  fresh 
scouts  come  in,  and  report  no  intelligence  of  the  British  army  whatever  in 
the  quarter  named.  The  movement  was  postponed  ;  and  while  Sullivan 
was  thus  shifting  from  one  opinion  to  another,  while  Washington,  with 
Wayne,  was  expecting  the  attack  at  Chadd's  Ford,  through  this  unfortunate 
contradiction  of  conflicting  intelligence,  the  enemy  was  allowed  to  take  a 
secure  and  powerful  position,  some  three  miles  north-east  of  Brinton's 
Ford,  and  some  four  miles  from  Chadd's  Ford. 

We  have  seen  the  battle  which  ensued,  and  gone  through  its  varies  phases 
of  ferocity  and  chivalry. 

While  Washington  with  his  Generals,  Sullivan,  Greene,  and  La-Fayette 
was  doing  immortal  deeds  in  the  valley  of  the  Quaker  Temple,  alone  on  the 
heights  of  Chadd's  Ford,  stood  Anthony  Wayne,  breasting  the  overwhelm 
ing  force  of  the  Hessian  army,  with  his  little  band  of  heroes. 

With  a  thousand  half-armed  Continentals,  he  opposed  five  thousand  hire 
lings,  prepared  in  every  respect  for  the  game  of  war,  their  cannon  glooming 
in  every  steep,  their  bayonets  gleaming  on  every  hill. 

It  was  at  four  o'clock,  that  the  valley  of  the  Brandywine  near  Chadd's 
Ford,  presented  a  spectacle  worthy  of  the  brightest  days  of  chivalry. 


ANTHONY  WAYNE  AT  BRANDYWINE.         381 

At  first  looking  from  the  steep  where  Wayne  watched  the  fight,  his  hand 
kaid  on  the  neck  of  his  steed,  you  behold  nothing  but  vast  clouds  of  smoke 
rolling  like  the  folds  of  an  immense  curtain  over  the  valley.  Through 
these  clouds,  streamed  every  instant  great  masses  of  flame.  Then  long  and 
arrowy  flashes  of  light,  quivered  through  their  folds.  Now  they  wore  the 
blackness  of  midnight,  in  a  moment  they  were  changed  into  masses  of 
snow. 

And  as  they  swayed  to  and  fro,  you  might  behold  a  strange  meeting 
which  took  place  in  the  lap  of  the  valley.  Pouring  from  the  woods  above 
the  stream,  the  Hessian  hordes  in  their  varied  and  picturesque  costume, 
came  swarming  over  the  field.  As  they  advanced,  the  cannon  above  their 
heads  on  the  western  hills,  belched  volumes  of  fire  and  death,  and  lighted 
them  on  their  way.  As  they  came  on,  their  musquets  poured  volley  after 
volley,  into  the  faces  of  the  foe.  Their  wild  battle-shout  was  heard,  in  the 
din  of  conflict  Altogether  the  war  of  cannon,  the  sharp  clang  of  musquetry, 
the  clouds  now  rolling  here,  now  floating  yonder,  the  bayonets  gleaming 
like  scattered  points  of  flame,  far  along  the  field,  presented  a  scene  at  once 
wild  and  beautiful. 

And  there  in  the  centre  of  the  valley,  under  the  very  eye  of  Wayne,  a 
band  of  men,  some  clad  in  plain  farmer's  attire,  some  in  the  hunting  shirt 
of  the  backwoodsman,  stood  undismayed  while  the  Hessians  swarmed  on 
every  side.  No  shout  broke  from  their  sturdy  ranks.  Silently  loading 
their  rifles,  they  stood  as  though  rooted  to  the  sod,  every  one  selecting  a 
broad  chest  for  his  target,  as  he  raised  his  piece  to  the  shoulder. 

The  sod  beneath  was  slippery  with  blood.  The  faces  of  dead  men 
glared  horribly  all  around.  1  he  convulsed  forms  of  wounded  soldiers — 
whose  arms  had  been  torn  oft'  at  the  shoulder,  whose  eyes  had  been  dark 
ened  forever,  whose  skulls  had  been  crushed  from  the  crown  to  the  brow — 
were  beneath  their  feet. 

And  yet  they  fought  on.  They  did  not  shout,  but  waiting  patiently  until 
they  might  almost  touch  the  bayonets  of  the  Hessians,  they  poured  the 
blaze  of  rifles  in  their  faces.  And  every  time  that  blaze  lighted  up  the 
cloud,  a  new  heap  of  dead  men  littered  the  field. 

Still  the  Hessians  advanced.  Sold  by  their  King  to  Murder,  at  so  much 
per  day,  very  brutes  in  human  shape  whose  business  it  was  to  Kill,  they 
trampled  the  dead  bodies  of  their  own  comrades  into  the  sod,  uttered  their 
yell  and  plunged  into  the  ranks  of  the  Continental  soldiers. 

In  vain  the  gleam  of  their  bayonets  which  shone  so  beautiful,  in  vain  their 
hoarse  shout,  which  echoed  afar  like  the  howl  of  savage  beasts,  mangling 
their  prey,  in  vain  their  elegantly  arranged  columns,  displayed  in  the  most 
approved  style  of  European  warfare  ! 

The  American  riflemen  met  them  breast  to  breast,  and  sent  their  bullets 
home.  Their  faces  darkened  by  powder,  spotted  with  blood,  their  uncouth 
attire  fluttering  in  rags,  they  did  not  move  one  inch,  but  in  stern  silence  only 


382  THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

broken  by  the  report  of  their  rifles,  these  Continental  heroes  met  the  onset 
of  the  foe. 

Suddenly  the  sun  broke  through  the  clouds,  and  lighted  up  the  theatre  of 
battle. 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  a  venerable  mansion  rising  among  the  woods 
on  yonder  shore  of  the  Brandywine,  ascended  to  the  sky,  in  a  whirling 
cloud  of  smoke  and  flame.  Blown  up  by  the  explosion  of  powder,  it  shot 
a  long  column  of  fire  and  blackness  into  the  sky,  and  then  its  fragments 
strewed  the  battle-field,  mingled  with  the  mangled  wrecks  of  human  forms. 

Anthony  Wayne,  resting  his  hand  on  the  neck  of  his  steed,  beheld  it  all. 

He  quivered  in  every  nerve  with  the  excitement  of  the  combat,  and  yet 
pressing  his  lip  between  his  teeth,  awaited  the  moment  when  his  sword 
should  flash  from  the  scabbard,  his  roan  war-horse  dash  like  a  thunderbolt 
into  the  storm  of  battle. 

That  moment  came  at  last.  It  was  when  the  bloody  contest  had  rolled 
over  the  valley  for  an  hour  and  more,  that  the  crisis  came. 

Look  yonder  along  the  summit  of  the  western  hills,  where  the  Hessian 
banner  darkens  through  the  trees  !  Look  yonder  and  behold  that  gallant 
company  of  warriors  wind  slowly  down  the  hill,  their  swords,  their  helmets, 
their  plumes,  brightening  in  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun.  Four  hundred 
strong,  all  attired  in  midnight  black,  relieved  by  gold,  each  helmet  bearing 
the  ominous  skull  and  cross  bones  emblazoned  on  its  front,  the  dragoons  of 
Anspach  came  to  battle. 

At  their  head  mounted  on  a  snow-white  steed,  whose  uplifted  head  and 
quivering  nostrils  denote  the  fever  of  the  strife,  rides  a  man  of  warrior  pre 
sence,  his  steel  helmet  shadowed  beneath  a  mass  of  dark  plumes,  his  broad 
chest  clad  in  a  rich  uniform,  black  as  the  raven's  wing,  glittering  with  stars 
and  epaulettes  of  gold.  It  is  Kniphausen,  the  General  of  the  Hessian  horde, 
riding  at  the  head  of  veteran  troopers,  the  bravest  assassins  of  his  hireling 
band. 

In  their  rude  faces,  darkened  by  the  heavy  mustachio  and  beard,  cut  and 
hacked  by  scars,  you  read  no  gleam  of  pity.  The  cry  of"  Quarter  !"  falls 
unheeded  on  the  ears  of  men  like  these.  No  matter  how  just  or  infamous 
the  cause,  their  business  is  war,  their  pastime  butchery.  Unfurling  the 
black  flag  of  their  Prince — you  see  the  Skull  and  Cross  bones  glittering  in 
the  sun — they  descend  the  hill,  dash  through  the  stream,  and  pour  the 
avalanche  of  their  charge  upon  the  Continental  host. 

Wayne  saw  them  come,  and  glanced  for  a  moment  on  their  formidable 
airay.  Then  turning  he  beheld  the  steeds  of  some  two  hundred  troopers, 
fccattered  through  the  orchard  at  his  back,  the  swords  of  their  riders  touch 
ing  the  ripe  fruit  which  hung  from  the  bending  boughs. 

Wayne  silently  removed  his  plumed  chapeau,  and  took  from  the  hand* 
ol  a  soldier  at  his  side,  his  trooper's  helmet,  faced  with  steel  and  adorned 
with  a  single  bucktail  plume. 


ANTHONY    WAYNE    AT    BRANDY  WINE.  383 

Then  vaulting  in  the  saddle,  he  unsheathed  his  sword,  and  turning  to  the 
troopers  shouted    in  his  deep,  indignant  tones,  the  simple  battle-word- 
14  Come  on  !" 

He  plunged  from  the  embankment,  and  ere  his  gallant  roan  had  reached 
the  base  of  the  knoll,  forth  from  the  orchard  trees  burst  that  band  of  tried 
soldiers,  and  with  their  swords  steadily  gleaming,  thundered  in  one  solic 
mass  down  into  the  whirlpool  of  the  fight. 

Their  banner,  a  White  Horse  painted  on  a  blue  field,  and  surrounded 
with  Thirteen  Stars,  fluttered  out  upon  the  breeze ;  that  single  peal  of  the 
trumpet  sounding  the  charge,  shrieked  far  along  the  meadow. 

Rio-ht  through  the  battle  Kniphausen  crashes  on,  the  swords  of  his  men 
describing  fiery  circles  in  the  air,  the  riflemen  fall  back,  cut  by  their  steel, 
crushed  by  their  horses  hoofs,  panic  stricken  by  their  Hessian  hurrah. 

But  courage,  brave  yeomen  !  Wayne  is  coming;  his  banner  is  on  the 
breeze,  his  sword  rises  above  his  head,  a  glittering  point  of  flame  amid  that 
sea  of  rolling  clouds. 

The  soldiers  who  remained  on  the  embarkment,  beheld  a  strange  and 
stirring  sight. 

Anthony  Wayne,  at  the  head  of  two  hundred  brave  troopers,  dashing 
toward  the  centre  of  the  meadow,  from  the  east — the  Hessian  Kniphausen, 
at  the  same  moment  advancing  to  the  same  point  from  the  west.  Between 
the  Generals  lay  heaps  of  dead  and  dying  ;  around  them,  the  riflemen  and 
Yagers,  these  in  the  hunting  shirt,  the  others  in  a  gaudy  dress  of  green, 
waged  a  desperate  and  bloody  contest. 

Wayne  turned  his  head  over  his  shoulder,  and  waved  his  sword — "  Come 
on  !"  the  deep  words  rung  through  his  clenched  teeth. 

They  knew  his  voice,  knew  the  glare  of  his  battle  eye,  knew  that  uplifted 
arm,  and  dented  sword  ! 

Never  has  Kniphausen,  crashing  on,  in  the  full  current  of  impetuous 
slaughter,  beheld  the  trooper  at  his  side,  fall  dead  on  the  neck  of  his  steed» 
the  marks  of  the  rifle-ball  oozing  from  his  brow,  he  also  looked  up  and  be 
held  the  coming  of  Mad  Anthony  Wayne  ! 

It  cannot  be  said  that  Wayne  fought  after  the  most  approved  style  of 
European  tactics. 

But  there  was  an  honest  sincerity  about  his  manner  of  fighting,  an  un 
pretending  zeal  in  the  method  of  his  charge,  when  riding  the  enemy  down, 
he  wrote  his  name  upon  their  faces  with  his  sword,  that  taught  them  to 
respect  the  hardy  son  of  Chester. 

"  Upon  them  !"  he  shouted,  and  at  once  his  two  hundred  troopers  went 
into  the  heart  of  the  Hessian  column.  They  did  not  move  very  slowly 
you  will  observe,  nor  advance  in  scattered  order,  but  four  abreast,  a  solid 
bolt  of  horses,  men  and  steel,  they  burst  upon  the  foe,  just  as  you  have 
seen  a  rock  hurled  from  an  enormous  height,  crush  the  trees  in  the  valley 
beneath. 


384  THE  RATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 

The  banner  of  the  White  Horse  and  Stars,  mingled  with  the  Black  Flag 
of  Anspach — a  cloud  of  men,  horses  and  swords,  whirled  like  the  last  effort 
of  a  thunderstorm  along  the  valley.  In  a  moment,  you  can  see  nothing, 
but  the  points  of  swords,  gleaming  from  the  confusion  of  the  conflict. 
Then,  troopers  bending  over  the  mane  of  their  steeds,  their  good  swords 
quivering  together,  ere  the  fatal  blow — horses  themselves,  fired  with  the 
fury  of  the  hour,  tearing  each  other's  necks  with  their  teeth — wounded 
men,  plunging  from  their  saddles  to  the  sod — the  banners  of  the  foemen 
waving  over  all  ! 

It  was  in  the  centre  of  that  whirling  fight,  that  Kniphausen  and  Wayne, 
cutting  their  way  with  their  swords,  silently  confronted  each  other.  The 
dark  figure  on  the  white  steed  drew  near  and  nearer  to  the  form,  attired  in 
blue  and  buff,  and  mounted  on  a  roan  war-horse.  Each  man  beheld  his 
foe,  and  their  eyes  met  in  a  look,  as  searching  as  it  was  momentary. 

The  appearance  of  Wayne  indicated  violent  emotion.  His  lip  compressed 
between  his  teeth,  his  hazel  eye  firing  beneath  the  frontlet  of  his  cap,  he 
grasped  his  sword,  and  for  one  moment  looked  around. 

It  was  a  hideous  spectacle  that  met  his  eye.  The  Continentals  scatter 
ing  over  the  meadow,  in  broken  array  ;  the  ground  heaped  with  the  bodies 
of  the  dead  ;  the  Brandy  wine,  ghastly  with  the  forces  of  the  slain,  thrown 
into  light  by  its  crimson  waves. 

That  look  seemed  to  make  the  blood  within  him,  boil  like  molten  lead. 
For  raising  himself  in  his  stirrips,  he  called  to  his  brother  knights — to  Mar 
shall  of  Virginia,  to  Proctor  of  the  Land  of  Penn,  to  the  heroic  riflemen, 
Maxwell  and  Porterfield — he  shouted,  the  day  was  not  yet  lost,  and  then, 
with  one  impulse,  himself  and  his  horse,  charged  Kniphausen  home. 

No  human  arm  might  stand  the  fury  of  that  charge.  In  a  moment 
Kniphausen  found  himself  alone  in  the  midst  of  his  enemies,  the  sword  of 
Wayne,  glaring  near  and  nearer  to  his  heart,  the  faces  of  the  Continentals 
darkening  round. 

He  appealed  to  his  men,  but  in  vain.  To  drive  them  back  on  the  rivulet, 
to  hurl  them,  horses  and  men  together,  into  the  red  embrace  of  the  waves, 
to  cut  the  banner  staff,  and  trail  their  banner  in  the  mire,  to  sabre  them  by 
tens  and  twenties,  as  they  strove  to  recover  their  battle  order — this  was  a 
brilliant  thing  to  do,  but  right  brilliantly  it  was  done,  by  Mad  Anthony  and 
his  men. 

That  sight  thrilled  like  electric  fire  along  the  field.  In  a  moment  the 
Continentals  rallied ;  the  riflemen  advanced  ;  the  artillery  began  to  play,, 
the  air  thundered  once  more  with  the  battle  shout ! 

Reining  his  roan  war-horse  on  the  banks  of  the  Brandywine,  his  sword 
in  sober  truth  dripping  with  blood,  Anthony  Wayne,  his  face  quivering  with 
the  intoxication  of  the  battle,  shouted  to  his  soldiers,  cheered  them  to  the 
charge,  saw  them  whirl  the  whole  Hessian  force  into  the  stream. 


ANTHONY  WAYNE  AT  BRANDYWINE.         385 

How  brilliantly  the  fire  of  hope  and  glory,  lit  up  the  hazel  eye  of 
Wayne  ! 

At  the  instant,  while  the  Hessian  army  in  all  its  varied  costume  thronged 
the  bed  of  the  rivulet  and  scattered  in  dismay  along  the  western  shore,  while 
Kniphausen  mad  with  chagrin,  hurried  from  rank  to  rank,  cursing  the  men 
who  would  not  ti^ht,  while  Marshall  and  Proctor,  Maxwell  and  Porterfield 

C1 

were  hurrying  their  forces  to  the  charge,  the  sun  shone  out  from  the  west 
ern  sky  and  lighted  up  the  Brandywine,  the  valley,  the  forces  of  the  living 
and  the  crushed  countenances  of  the  dead. 

The  sudden  gush  of  sunlight  bathed  the  brow  of  Anthony  Wayne,  as 
thrilling  to  his  inmost  heart,  he  waved  his  sword,  and  once  more  sounded 
the  charge. 

At  the  very  moment,  in  the  very  flush  of  his  triumph,  a  strange  sound 
from  the  east  growled  on  the  ears  of  the  General.  It  was  the  tramp  of 
the  right  wing  under  Washington,  Sullivan  and  Greene,  retreating  from  the 
field  of  the  Quaker  Temple.  Wayne  saw  their  broken  array,  and  knew 
that  the  field,  not  the  day  was  lost. 

His  sword  sank  slowly  to  his  side,  with  his  face  to  the  foe,  he  pointed 
the  way  to  old  Chester ;  he  uttered  the  deep  words  of  command. 

44  The  soldiers  of  the  right  wing  have  been  forced  to  retreat  before  supe 
rior  numbers — we  will  protect  their  retreat !" 

With  surprise,  indeed  with  awe,  Kniphausen  beheld  the  victorious  band, 
who  had  just  hurled  his  forces  back  upon  the  stream,  slowly  form  in  the 
order  of  retreat,  their  swords  and  banners  gleaming  in  the  sun. 

And  as  the  Continental  forces  slowly  wound  along  the  eastern  hills — at* 
Kniphausen  proceeded  to  occupy  the  ground  which  they  had  deserted — a 
solitary  warrior,  the  last  of  the  rebel  army,  reined  his  steed  on  the  knoll  of 
Chadd's  Ford,  and  with  his  blood-stained  face  glowing  in  the  sunshine 
looked  back  upon  the  field,  and  in  one  glance  surveyed  its  soil,  transformed 
into  bloody  mire,  its  river  floating  with  dead,  its  overlooking  hills  glittering 
with  Hessian  steel  ! 

That  one  look,  accompanied  by  a  quivering  of  the  lip,  a  heaving  of  his 
broad  chest,  the  last  gaze  over,  and  the  roan  war-horse  turned  away,  bear 
ing  from  the  field  of  Brandywine  its  own  hero,  Mad  Anthony  Wayne  ! 

From  the  rising  to  the  setting  of  the  sun,  he  had  maintained  the  fight; 
on  the  hills  of  his  childhood,  he  had  worked  out  his  boyhood's  dream,  and 
wrote  his  name  on  the  column  of  a^es,  with  his  battle  sword.* 


*  NOTE. — Among  the  many  ridiculous  anecdotes  which  are  told  of  great  men,  none 
are  more  contemptible  than  two  stories  which  are  gravely  written  in  connection  with 
the  name  of  Anthony  Wayne.  It  is  said  on  one  occasion,  when  Washington  desired 
the  presence  of  Wayne,  at  his  council,  the  latter  sent  this  message — ''  You  plan,  and 
I'll  execute  .'  Plan  an  attack  on  Hell,  and  Til  storm  the  gates  .'"  Whether  the  wit  of 
this  consists  in  its  gross  profanity,  or  drunken  bravado,  those  grave  gentlemen,  who 
record  it  in  their  pages,  may  best  answer.  It  is  an  insult  on  the  memory  of  the  chivai- 


THE  BATTLE  OF  BRANDYWINE. 


XX.— FORTY-SEVEN  YEARS  AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

IT  was  a  calm  and  lovely  day  in  summer — the  time  was  morning,  and 
the  place  the  valley  of  the  Birmingham  meeting  house.  The  place  was 
calm  and  lovely  as  on  the  battle  morn,  but  forty-seven  long  years  had  past 
since  that  day  of  terror,  and  yet  the  bye  roads  the  hills  and  the  plains,  were 
all  alive  with  people  clad  in  their  holiday  costume.  A  long  procession 
wound  with  banners  and  with  the  gleam  of  arms,  around  the  base  of  Os- 
home's  Hill,  while  in  their  front  the  object  of  every  eye,  there  rolled  a 
close  carriage,  drawn  by  six  magnificent  steeds,  and  environed  by  civic  sol 
diers  who  rent  the  air  with  shouts,  and  flung  wreaths  of  flowers  and  laurel 
beneath  the  horses'  hoofs. 

Slowly  and  with  peals  of  solemn  music — the  summer  sun  above,  shining 
serenely  from  a  cloudless  sky — the  carriage  wound  along  the  ascent  of  the 
Hill  and  in  a  few  moments,  while  valley  and  plain  below  were  black  with 
people,  the  elegantly  caparisoned  steeds  were  reined  in  on  the  broad  sum 
mit  of  that  battle-mount. 

There  was  a  pause  for  a  moment,  and  then  an  aged  man,  a  veteran  trem 
ulous  with  the  burden  of  seventy  years,  and  grim  with  scars — clad  in  the 
3ostume  of  the  Revolution,  approached  and  opened  the  carriage  door. 

The  crowd  formed  a  silent  circle  around  the  scene. 

A  man  of  some  sixty  years,  tall  in  stature,  magnificent  in  his  bearing, 
•stepped  from  the  carriage,  his  form  clad  in  a  plain  dress  of  blue,  his  un 
covered  brow  glowing  in  the  sun,  with  the  grey  hairs  streaming  to  the 
breeze. 

He  stepped  on  the  sod  with  the  bearing  of  a  man  formed  to  win  the  hearts 
of  men ;  he  advanced  with  the  manner  of  one  of  nature's  Kings.  For  a 
moment  he  stood  uncovered  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  with  the  sun  shining 
on  his  noble  brow,  while  his  clear  blue  eye  lighted  up,  as  with  the  memo 
ries  of  forty-seven  years. 

And  then  from  plain,  from  hill,  from  valley,  from  the  lips  of  ten  thousand 
freemen  arose  one  shout — the  thunder  of  a  Peoples'  gratitude — loud,  pro 
longed  and  deafening.  The  soldiers  waved  their  swords  on  high — they 
raised  their  caps  in  the  air — and  again,  and  again,  the  shout  went  up  to  the 
clear  heavens. — In  that  chorus  of  joy,  only  a  word  was  intelligible,  a  word 
that  bubbled  from  the  overflowing  fountains  of  ten  thousand  hearts : 

*'  LA  FAYETTE  I" 


ricPennsylvanian,  whose  glory  is  the  treasure  of  our  history.     The  other  anecdote, 
reads  something  like  this:  "Can  you  take  that  battery,  Wayne,"  said  Washington. 

Do  not  swear,  Anthony," — "  Then,  with  or  without  the 


"I  will  take  ilbi/  the  Lord  /"  "Do 
Lord,. r 'II  take  ti ! /"  Can  anything 
.uffian,  but  agentleman.  Why  wi 


be  more  utterly  unlike,  Wayne?     He  was  not  a 

agentleman.     Why  will  these  joflrneymen  historians,  transform  a  brav« 
and  heroic  man,  into  a  braggart  and  blasphemer  ? 


FORTY-SEVEN  YEARS  AFTER  THE  BATTLE.      397 

The  Stranger  was  observed  to  tremble  with  a  strange  emotion.  He  who 
had  fought  undaunted  in  the  battle  of  that  valley  forty-seven  years  ago, 
.rembled  like  a  child.  The  Hero  of  Two  Revolutions,  the  Boy  of  Brandy- 
wine,  the  Prisoner  of  Olmutz,  who  flung  his  broad  lands  and  princely  reven 
ues  in  the  lap  of  freedom,  now  bowed  his  head,  leaned  upon  the  shoulder 
of  the  veteran  and  veiled  his  eyes  from  the  light. 

When  he  raised  his  face  again,  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

So  beautiful  that  country  bloomed  before  him,  so  darkly  on  his  memory 
rushed  the  condition  of  blighted  France !  The  land  of  his  birth  trodden 
under  the  hoofs  of  the  invader,  the  Bourbon-Idiot  on  her  Throne,  the  Na 
poleon  of  her  love,  dead  in  his  island-gaol  of  St.  Helena.  And  here  an 
Exile — almost  a  homeless  Wanderer — stood  the  Man  of  Two  Revolutions, 
gazing  upon  the  battle  plain,  which  forty-seven  years  before  had  been 
crowded  by  British  legions,  but  now  bloomed  only  with  the  blessings  of 
peace,  the  smile  of  an  all-paternal  God  ! 

The  contrast  between  the  Land  of  Washington  and  the  Land  of  Napo 
leon,  was  too  much  for  La  Fayette. 

He  gazed  upon  the  hills  crowned  with  woodlands,  the  farms  blooming 
with  cultivation  and  dotted  with  Homes  upon  the  level  plains,  green  as  with 
the  freshness  of  spring,  the  wide  landscape  glowing  in  the  sun,  the  very 
Garden  of  the  Lord — he  gazed— he  thought  of — FRANCE.  The  tears 
streamed  freely  down  his  cheeks. 

Then  his  blue  eye  surveyed  the  Quaker  temple,  rising  on  its  far-off  hill, 
surrounded  by  its  grassy  mounds.  As  on  the  battle-day  it  looked  so  with 
Us  grey  walls  and  rude  roof  and  narrow  windows  it  now  arose,  the  trees 
around  it,  quivering  their  tops  in  the  morning  light. 

Again  the  shout  of  that  dense  crowd  thundered  on  the  air,  Welcome,  wel 
come  the  friend  of  Washington,  La  Fayette  ! 

But  it  fell  unheeded  on  his  ear.  His  soul  was  with  the  Past.  There 
forty-seven  years  before,  he  had  seen  Washington  in  all  his  chivalric  man 
hood  ;  there  Pulaski  in  his  white  array  and  battle-worn  face,  thundering  on, 
in  his  hurricane  charge  ;  there  Sullivan  and  Wayne  and  Greene,  with  all 
the  heroes  doing  deeds  that  started  into  history  ere  the  day  was  gone  ;  he 
had  seen,  known  them  all,  and  loved  the  Chief  of  all. 

And  now 

He  stretched  forth  his  arms,  and  clasped  the  veteran  of  the  Revolution  to 
his  heart. 

"  They're  all  gone,  now — "  were  the  earnest  words  that  bubbled  from 
his  full  heart :  "  All  comrade,  but  you  !  Of  all  the  chivalry  of  Brandy  wine 
that  forty-seven  years  ago,  blazed  along  these  hills,  what  now  remains  ?" 

Then  as  the  vision  of  his  blighted  France,  rushed  once  again  upon  his 
soul,  he  murmured  incoherently,  "  My  God  !  My  God  !  Happy  country 
--happy  People !" 

There  on  the  summit  of  the  Battle-Hill  he  leaned  his  arm  upon   his 


388  THE   BATTLE   OF   BRANDYWIITii,. 

brother  veteran,  noi  trusting  his  tongue  with  further  speech.  His  heart 
was  too  full  for  words.  As  he  stood  overwhelmed  by  his  emotions,  the 
shout  of  the  people  was  heard  once  more — 

"  Welcome  the  Champion  of  Freedom  in  two  Worlds,  the  hero  of  Bran- 
dywine  and  friend  of  Washington,  welcome  La  Fayette !" 


BOOK  FIFTH. 

THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1776. 

MEN   AND   THEIR   MISSION. 


THE  DECLARATION  ;  ITS  SOURCE  ;  ITS  ACTION  UPON  MANKIND  IN  THE 
REVOLUTIONS  OF  AMERICA  AND  FRANCK. 


(389) 


THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1776. 


I.— THE  DAY. 

LET  me  paint  you  a  picture  on  the  canvass  of  the  Past. 

It  is  a  cloudless  summer  day.  Yes,  a  clear  blue  sky  arches  and  smiles 
above  a  quaint  edifice,  rising  among  giant  trees,  in  the  centre  of  a  wide  city. 
That  edifice  is  built  of  red  brick,  with  heavy  window  frames  and  a  massy 
hall  door.  The  wide-spreading  dome  of  St.  Peter's,  the  snowy  pillars  of 
the  Parthenon,  the  gloomy  glory  of  Westminster  Abbey— r-none  of  these,  nor 
any  thing  like  these  are  here,  to  elevate  this  edifice  of  plain  red  brick,  into 
a  gorgeous  monument  of  architecture. 

Plain  red  brick  the  walls  ;  the  windows  partly  framed  in  stone  ;  the  roof- 
eaves  heavy  with  intricate  carvings  ;  the  hall  door  ornamented  with  pillars 
of  dark  stone ;  such  is  the  State  House  of  Philadelphia,  in  this  year  of  our 
Lord,  1776. 

Around  this  edifice  stately  trees  arise.  Yonder  toward  the  dark  walls  of 
Walnut  street  gaol,  spreads  a  pleasant  lawn,  enclosed  by  a  plain  board  fence. 
Above  our  heads,  these  trees  lock  their  massy  limbs  and  spread  their  leafy 
canopy. 

There  are  walks  here,  too,  not  fashioned  in  squares  and  circles,  but 
spreading  in  careless  negligence  along  the  lawn.  Benches  too,  rude  benches, 
on  which  repose  the  forms  of  old  men  with  grey  hairs,  and  women  with 
babes  in  their  arms. 

This  is  a  beautiful  day,  and  this  a  pleasant  lawn :  but  why  do  those 
clusters  of  citizens,  with  anxious  faces,  gather  round  the  State  House  walls  ? 
There  is  me  Merchant  in  his  velvet  garb  and  ruffled  shirt ;  there  the  Me 
chanic,  with  apron  on  his  breast  and  tools  in  his  hands  ;  there  the  bearded 
Sailor  and  the  dark-robed  Minister,  all  grouped  together 

Why  this  anxiety  on  every  face  ?  This  gathering  in  little  groups  all 
over  the  lawn ! 

Yet  hold  a  moment !  In  yonder  wooden  steeple,  which  crowns  the  red 
brick  State  House,  stands  an  old  man  with  white  hair  and  sunburnt  face. 
He  is  clad  in  humble  attire,  yet  his  eye  gleams,  as  it  is  fixed  upon  the  pon 
derous  outline  of  the  bell,  suspended  in  the  steeple  there.  The  old  man 
tries  to  read  the  inscription  on  that  bell,  but  cannot.  Out  upon  the  waves, 

(391) 


392  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,  1776. 

far  away  in  the  forests  ;  thus  has  his  life  been  passed.  He  is  no  scholar , 
ne  scarcely  can  spell  one  of  those  strange  words  carved  on  the  surface  of 
that  bell. 

By  his  side,  gazing  in  his  free — that  sunburnt  face — in  wonder,  stands  a 
flaxen-haired  boy,  with  laughing  eyes  of  summer  blue. 

"  Come  here,  my  boy  ;  you  are  a  rich  man's  child.  You  can  read. 
Spell  me  those  words,  and  I'll  bless  ye,  my  good  child  !" 

And  the  child  raised  itself  on  tip-toe  and  pressed  its  tiny  hands  against  the 
bell,  and  read,  in  lisping  tones,  these  memorable  words : 

"  PROCLAIM  LIBERTY  TO  ALL   THE   LAND  AND  ALL   THE   INHABITANTS 

THEREOF." 

The  old  man  ponders  for  a  moment  on  those  strange  words  ;  then  gath 
ering  the  boy  in  his  arms,  he  speaks, 

"  Look  here,  my  child  ?  Wilt  do  the  old  man  a  kindness  ?  Then  haste 
you  down  stairs,  and  wait  in  the  hall  by  the  big  door,  until  a  man  shall  give 
you  a  message  for  me.  A  man  with  a  velvet  dress  and  a  kind  face,  will 
come  out  from  the  big  door,  and  give  you  a  word  for  me.  When  he  gives 
you  that  word,  then  run  out  yonder  in  the  street,  and  shout  it  up  to  me. 
Do  you  mind?" 

It  needed  no  second  command.  The  boy  with  blue  eyes  and  flaxen  har 
sprang  from  the  old  Bell-keeper's  arms,  and  threaded  his  way  down  the  dark 
stairs. 

The  old  Bell-keeper  was  alone.  Many  minutes  passed.  Leaning  over 
the  railing  of  the  steeple,  his  face  toward  Chesnut  street,  he  looked  anxiously 
for  that  fair-haired  boy.  Moments  passed,  yet  still  he  came  not.  The 
crowds  gathered  more  darkly  along  the  pavement  and  over  the  lawn,  yet 
still  the  boy  came  not. 

"  Ah  !"  groaned  the  old  man,  "  he  has  forgotten  me  !  These  old  limbs 
will  have  to  totter  down  the  State  House  stairs,  and  climb  up  again,  and  all 
on  account  of  that  child " 

As  the  word  was  on  his  lips,  a  merry,  ringing  laugh  broke  on  the  ear 
There,  among  the  crowds  on  the  pavement,  stood  the  blue-eyed  boy,  clap 
ping  his  tiny  hands,  while  the  breeze  blowed  his  flaxen  hair  all  about  his  face. 

And  then  swelling  his  little  chest,  he  raised  himself  on  tip-toe,  and  shouted 
a  single  word —  , 

"  RING  !" 

Do  you  see  that  old  man's  eye  fire  ?  Do  you  see  that  arm  so  suddenly 
jarcd  to  the  shoulder,  do  you  see  that  withered  hand,  grasping  the  Iron 
Tongue  of  the  Bell  ?  The  old  man  is  young  again  ;  his  veins  are  filled 
with  new  life.  Backward  and  forward,  with  sturdy  strokes,  he  swings  the 
Tongue.  The  bell  speaks  out !  The  crowd  in  the  street  hear  it,  and  burst 
forth  in  one  long  shout !  Old  Delaware  hears  it,  and  gives  it  back  in  the 
hurrah  of  her  thousand  sailors.  The  city  hears  it,  and  starts  up  from  desk 
and  svork-bench,  as  though  an  earthquake  had  spoken. 


THE   DAY.  393 

Yet  still  while  the  sweat  pours  from  his  brow,  that  old  Bell-keeper  hurls 
tne  iron  tongue,  and  still — boom — boom — boom — the  Bel!  speaks  to  the  citv 
and  the  world. 

There  is  a  terrible  poetry  in  the  sound  of  that  State  House  Bell  at  dead 
of  night,  when  striking-  its  sullen  and  solemn — ONE  ! — It  rouses  crime  from 
its  task,  mirth  from  its  wine-cup,  murder  from  its  knife,  bribery  from  its 
gold.  There  is  a  terrible  poetry  in  that  sound.  It  speaks  to  us  like  a  voice 
from  our  youth — like  a  knell  of  God's  judgment — like  a  solemn  yet  kind 
remembrancer  of  friends,  now  dead  and  gone. 

There  is  a  terrible  poetry  in  that  sound  at  dead  of  niffht:  but  there  was 
a  day  when  the  echo  of  that  Bell  awoke  a  world,  slumbering  in  tyranny 
and  crime  ! 

Yes,  as  the  old  man  swung  the  Iron  Tongue,  the  Bell  spoke  to  all  the 
world.  That  sound  crossed  the  Atlantic — pierced  the  dungeons  of  Europe 
— the  work-shops  of  England — the  vassal-fields  of  France. 

That  Echo  spoke  to  the  slave — bade  him  look  from  his  toil — and  know 
himself  a  man. 

That  Echo  startled  the  Kings  upon  their  crumbling  thrones. 

That  Echo  was  the  knell  of  Kinff-craft,  Priest-craft,  and  all  other  craft* 
born  of  the  darkness  of  ages,  and  baptised  in  seas  of  blood. 

Yes,  the  voice  of  that  little  boy,  who  lifting  himself  on  tip-toe,  with  his 
flaxen  hair  blowing  in  the  breeze,  shouted — "Ring!" — had  a  deep  and 
awful  meaning  in  its  infant  tones  ! 

Why  did  that  word  "Ring!" — why  did  that  Echo  of  the  State  House 
Bell  speak  such  deep  and  awful  meaning  to  the  world  ?  What  did  that 
"  Ring  !" — the  Echo  of  that  Bell  to  do  with  the  downfall  of  the  Dishonest 
Priest  or  Traitor  King  ? 

Under  that  very  Bell,  pealing  out  at  noonday,  in  an  old  hall,  fifty-six 
traders,  farmers  and  mechanics,  had  assembled  to  shake  the  shackles  of  the 
world. 

Now  let  us  look  in  upon  this  band  of  plain  men,  met  in  such  solemn 
council  It  is  now  half  an  hour  previous  to  the  moment  when  the  Bell- 
Ringer  responded  to  the  shout  of  the  fair-haired  boy. 

This  is  an  old  hall.  It  is  not  so  large  as  many  a  monarch's  ante-room  ; 
you  might  put  a  hundred  like  it  within  the  walls  of  St.  Peter's,  and  yet  it 
is  a  fine  old  hall.  The  walls  are  concealed  in  dark  oaken  wainscotting, 
and  there  along  the  unclosed  windows,  the  purple  tapestry  comes  drooping 
down. 

The  ornaments  of  this  hall  ? 

Over  the  head  of  that  noble-browed  man — John  Hancock,  whc  sits  calm 
And  serene  in  yonder  chair — there  is  a  banner,  the  Banner  of  the  Stars 
Perched  on  that  Banner  sits  the  Eagle  with  unfolded  wings.  (Is  it  not  n 
precocious  bird  ?  Born  only  last  year  on  Bunker  Hill,  now  it  spreads  it? 
wings,  full-grown,  over  a  whole  Continent !) 


M4  THE   FOURTH    OF   JULY.  1776. 

Look  over  the  faces  of  these  fifty-six  men,  and  see  every  eye  turned  to 
that  door.  There  is  silence  in  this  hall — every  voice  is  hushed — every  face 
is  stamped  with  a  deep  and  awful  responsibility. 

Why  turns  every  glance  to  that  door,  why  is  every  face  so  solemn,  why 
is  it  so  terribly  still  ? 

The  Committee  of  Three,  who  have  been  out  all  night,  penning  a  Parch 
ment,  are  about  to  appear. 

The  Parchment,  with  the  Signatures  of  these  men,  written  with  the  pen 
lying  on  yonder  table,  will  either  make  the  world  free — or  stretch  these 
necks  upon  the  gibbet,  yonder  in  Potter's-field,  or  nail  these  heads  to  the 
door-posts  of  this  hall  ! 

That  was  the  time  for  solemn  faces  and  deep  silence. 

At  last,  hark  !  The  door  opens — the  Committee  appear.  Who  are 
these  three  men,  who  come  walking  on  toward  John  Hancock's  chair  ? 

That  tall  man,  with  the  sharp  features,  the  bold  brow  and  sand-hued  hair, 
holding  the  PARCHMENT  in  his  hand,  is  the  Virginia  Farmer,  Thomas  Jeffer 
son.  ^  The  stout-built  man  with  resolute  look  and  flashing  eye  ?  That  is  a 
Boston  man — one  John  Adams.  And  the  calm-faced  man,  with  hair  droop 
ing  in  thick  curls  to  his  shoulders — that  man  dressed  in  a  plain  coat,  and 
such  odious  home-made  blue  stockings — that  is  the  Philadelphia  Printer, 
one  Benjamin  Franklin. 

The  three  advance  to  the  table.  The  Parchment  is  laid  there.  Shall  it 
be  signed  or  not  ? 

Then  ensues  a  high  and  stormy  debate — then  the  faint-hearted  cringe  in 
corners — while  Thomas  Jefferson  speaks  out  his  few  bold  words,  and  John 
Adams  pours  out  his  whole  soul. 

Then  the  deep-toned  voice  of  Richard  Henry  Lee  is  heard,  swelling  in 
syllables  of  thunder-like  music. 

But  still  there  is  doubt — and  that  pale-faced  man,  shrinking  in  one  corner, 
squeaks  out  something  about  axes,  scaffolds,  and  a — GIBBET  ! 

"  GIBBET  !"  echoes  a  fierce,  bold  voice,  that  startles  men  from  their  seats, 
— and  look  yonder  !  A  tall  slender  man  rises,  dressed — although  it  is 
summer  time — in  a  dark  robe.  Look  how  his  white  hand  undulates 
as  it  is  stretched  slowly  out,  how  that  dark  eye  burns,  while  his  words  ring 
through  the  hall.  (We  do  not  know  his  name,  let  us  therefore  call  his 
appeal) 

THE  SPEECH  OF  THE  UNKNOWN. 

«  Gibbet  ?  They  may  stretch  our  necks  on  all  the  gibbets  in  the  land— 
they  may  turn  every  rock  into  a  scaffold — every  tree  into  a  gallows,  every 
home  into  a  grave,  and  yet  the  words  on  that  Parchment  can  never  die ! 

"  They  may  pour  our  blood  on  a  thousand  scaffolds,  and  yet  from  every 
drop  that  dyes  the  axe,  or  drips  on  the  sawdust  of  the  block,  a  new  martvr 
to  Frpfdom  will  spring  into  birth 


THE    DAY.  393 

•*  The  British  King  may  blot  out  the  Stars  of  God  from  His  sky,  but  he 
cannot  blot  out  His  words  written  on  the  Parchment  there  !  The  works 
of  God  may  perish — His  Word,  never  ! 

"  These  words  will  go  forth  to  the  world  when  our  bones  are  dust.  To 
the  slave  in  the  mines  they  will  speak — HOPE — to  the  mechanic  in  his 
workshop — FREEDOM — to  the  coward-kings  these  words  will  speak,  but  not 
in  tones  of  flattery  ?  No,  no  !  They  will  speak  like  the  flaming  syllables 
on  Belshazzar's  wall — THE  DAYS  OF  YOUR  PRIDE  AND  GLORY  ARE  NUMBERED  \ 
THE  DAYS  OF  JUDGMENT  AND  REVOLUTION  DRAW  NEAR  ! 

44  Yes,  that  Parchment  will  speak  to  the  Kings  in  a  language  sad  and 
terrible  as  the  trump  of  the  Archangel.  You  have  trampled  on  mankind 
long  enough.  At  last  the  voice  of  human  woe  has  pierced  the  ear  of  God, 
and  called  His  Judgment  down  !  You  have  waded  on  to  thrones  over 
seas  of  blood — you  have  trampled  on  to  power  over  the  necks  of  millions — 
you  have  turned  the  poor  man's  sweat  and  blood  into  robes  for  your  delicate 
forms,  into  crowns  for  your  anointed  brows.  Now  Kings — now  purpled 
Hangmen  of  the  world — for  you  come  the  days  of  axes  and  gibbets  and 
scaffolds — for  you  the  wrath  of  man — for  you  the  lightnings  of  God  ! — 

"  Look !  How  the  light  of  your  palaces  on  fire  flashes  up  into  the  mid 
night  sky  ! 

"  Now  Purpled  Hangmen  of  the  world — turn  and  beg  for  mercy  ! 

"  Where  will  you  find  it  ? 

"  Not  from  God,  for  you  have  blasphemed  His  laws  ! 

44  Not  from  the  People,  for  you  stand  baptized  in  their  blood  ! 

"  Here  you  turn,  and  lo !  a  gibbet ! 

"  There — and  a  scaffold  looks  you  in  the  face. 

"  All  around  you — death — and  nowhere  pity  ! 

"  Now  executioners  of  the  human  race,  kneel  down,  yes,  kneel  down 
upon  the  sawdust  of  the  scaffold — lay  your  perfumed  heads  upon  the  block 
— bless  the  axe  as  it  falls — the  axe  that  you  sharpened  for  the  poor  man's 
neck ! 

44  Such  is  the  message  of  that  Declaration  to  Man,  to  the  Kings  of  the 
world  !  And  shall  we  falter  now  ?  And  shall  we  start  back  appalled  when 
our  feet  press  the  very  threshhold  of  Freedom  ?  Do  I  see  quailing  faces 
around  me,  when  our  wives  have  been  butchered — when  the  hearthstones 
of  our  land  are  red  with  the  blood  of  little  children  ? 

"  What  are  these  shrinking  hearts  and  faltering  voices  here,  when  the  very 
Dead  of  our  battlefields  arise,  and  call  upon  us  to  sign  that  Parchment,  or 
be  accursed  forever  ? 

"  SIGN  !  if  the  next  moment  the  gibbet's  rope  is  round  your  neck !  SIGN  ! 
if  the  next  moment  this  hall  rings  with  the  echo  of  the  falling  axe  !  SIGN  ! 
By  all  your  hopes  in  life  or  death,  as  husbands — as  fathers — as  men — sign 
your  names  to  the  Parchment  or  be  accursed  forever  ! 

14  Sign — and  not  only  for  yourselves,  but  for  all  ages.     For  thai  Parch- 


398  THE   FOURTH    OF   JULY,   1776 

ment  will  be  the  Text-book  of  Freedom— the  Bible  of  the  Rights  of  Man 
forever ! 

"  Sign — for  that  declaration  will  go  forth  to  American  hearts  forever,  and 
speak  to  those  hearts  like  the  voice  of  God  !  And  its  work  will  not  be 
done,  until  throughout  this  wide  Continent  not  a  single  inch  of  ground  owna 
the  sway  of  a  British  King ! 

"  Nay,  do  not  start  and  whisper  with  surprise  !  It  is  a  truth,  your  own 
hearts  witness  it,  God  proclaims  it. — This  Continent  is  the  property  of  a 
free  people,  and  their  property  alone.  God,  I  say,  proclaims  it!  Look  at 
this  strange  history  of  a  band  of  exiles  and  outcasts,  suddenly  transformed 
into  a  PEOPLE— look  at  this  wonderful  Exodus  of  the  oppressed  of  the  Old 
World  into  the  New,  where  they  came,  weak  in  arms  but  mighty  in  God 
like  faiths-nay,  look  at  this  history  of  your  Bunker  Hill — your  Lexington— 
where  a  band  of  plain  farmers  mocked  and  trampled  down  the  panoply  of 
British  arms,  and  then  tell  me,  if  you  can,  that  God  has  not  given  America 
to  the  free? 

«'  It  is  not  given  to  our  poor  human  intellect  to  climb  the  skies,  to  pierce 
the  councils  of  the  Almighty  One.  But  methinks  I  stand  among  the  awful 
clouds  which  veil  the  brightness  of  Jehovah's  throne.  Methinks  I  see  the 
Recording  Angel — pale  as  an  angel  is  pale,  weeping  as  an  angel  can  weep 
— come  trembling  up  to  that  Throne,  and  speak  his  dread  message — 

"  *  Father !  the  old  world  is  baptized  in  blood  !  Father,  it  is  drenched 
with  the  blood  of  millions,  butchered  in  war,  in  persecution,  in  slow  and 
grinding  oppression  !  Father — look,  with  one  glance  of  Thine  Eternal  eye, 
look  over  Europe,  Asia,  Africa,  and  behold  evermore,  that  terrible  sight, 
man  trodden  down  beneath  the  oppressor's  feet — nations  lost  in  blood — 
Murder  and  Superstition  walking  hand  in  hand  over  the  graves  of  their 
victims,  and  not  a  single  voice  to  whisper,  '  Hope  to  Man .'' 

"  He  stands  there,  the  Angel,  his  hands  trembling  with  the  black  record 
of  human  guilt.  But  hark  1  The  voice  of  Jehovah  speaks  out  from  the 
awful  cloud — «  Let  there  be  light  again.  Let  there  be  a  New  World.  Tell 
my  people — the  poor — the  trodden  down  millions,  to  go  out  from  the  Old 
World.  Tell  them  to  go  out  from  wrong,  oppression  and  blood— tell  them 
(o  go  out  from  this  Old  World— to  build  my  altar  in  the  New  !* 

**  As  God  lives,  my  friends,  I  believe  that  to  be  HIS  voice  !  Yes,  were 
my  soul  trembling  on  the  wing  for  Eternity,  were  this  hand  freezing  in  death, 
were  this  voice  choking  with  the  last  struggle,  I  would  still,  with  the  last 
impulse  of  that  soul,  with  the  last  wave  of  that  hand,  with  the  last  gasp  of 
that  voice,  implore  you  to  remember  this  truth — GOD  has  given  America  to 
the  free!  Yes,  as  I  sank  down  into  the  gloomy  shadows  of  the  grave,  with 
iny  last  gasp,  I  would  beg  you  to  sign  that  Parchment,  in  the  name  of  the 
GOD,  who  made  the  Saviour  who  redeemed  you— in  the  name  of  the  mil 
lions  whose  very  breath  is  now  hushed  in  intense  expectation,  as  they  look 
up  to  yeu  for  the  awful  words — '  You  ARE  FREE  !" 


THE    DAY.  397 

O  many  years  have  gone  sjnce  that  hour — the  Speaker,  his  brethren,  all, 
have  crumbled  into  dust,  but(it  would  require  an  angel's  pen  to  picture  the 
magic  of  that  Speaker's  look,  the  deep,  terrible  emphasis  of  his  voice,  the 
prophet-like  beckoning  of  his  hand,  the  magnetic  flame  which  shooting  from 
his  eyes,  soon  fired  every  heart  throughout  the  hall ! 

He  fell  exhausted  in  his  seat,  but  the  work  was  done.  A  wild  murmur 
thrills  through  the  hall. — Sign?  Hah  ?  There  is  no  doubt  now.  Look  ! 
How  they  rush  forward — stout-hearted  John  Hancock  has  scarcely  time  to 
sign  his  bold  name,  before  the  pen  is  grasped  by  another — another  and 
another !  Look  how  the  names  blaze  on  the  Parchment — Adams  and  Lee 
and  Jefferson  and  Carroll,  and  now,  Roger  Sherman  the  Shoemaker. 

And  here  comes  good  old  Stephen  Hopkins — yes,  trembling  with  palsy, 
he  totters  forward — quivering  from  head  to  foot,  with  his  shaking  hands  he 
seizes  the  pen,  he  scratches  his  patriot-name. 

Then  comes  Benjamin  Franklin  the  Printer,  and  now  the  tall  man  in  the 
dark  robe  advances,  the  man  who  made  the  fiery  speech  a  moment  ago — 
with  the  same  hand  that  but  now  waved  in  such  fiery  scorn  he  writes  his 
name.* 

And  now  the  Parchment  is  signed  ;  and  now  let  word  go  forth  to  the 
People  in  the  streets — to  the  homes  of  America — to  the  camp  of  Mister 
Washington,  and  the  Palace  of  George  the  Idiot-King — let  word  go  out  to 
all  the  earth — 

And,  old  man  in  the  steeple,  now  bare  your  arm,  and  grasp  the  Iron 
Tongue,  and  let  the  bell  speak  out  the  great  truth  : 

FIFTY-SIX  TRADERS  AND  FARMBRS  AND  MECHANICS  HAVE  THIS  DAY  SHOOK 

THE  SHACKLES  OF  THE   WORLD  ! 

Hark  !     Hark  to  the  toll  of  that  Bell ! 

Is  there  not  a  deep  poetry  in  that  sound,  a  poetry  more  sublime  than 
Shakspeare  or  Milton  ? 

Is  there  not  a  music  in  the  sound,  that  reminds  you  of  those  awful  tones 
which  broke  from  angel-lips,  when  the  news  of  the  child  of  Jesus  burst  on 
the  Shepherds  of  Bethlehem  ? 

For  that  Bell  now  speaks  out  to  the  world,  that — 

GOD  HAS    GIVEN  THE   AMERICAN   CONTINENT    TO    THE  FREE THE    TOILING 

MILLIONS  OF  THE  HUMAN    RACE AS  THE  LAST  ALTAR  OF    THE  RIGHTS  OF  MAN 

ON  THE  GLOBE THE  HOME  OF  THE  OPPRESSED,  FOREVERMORE  ! 

Let  us  search  for  the  origin  of  the  great  truth,  which  that  bell  proclaimed, 
let  us  behold  the  great  Apostle  who  first  proclaimed  on  our  shores,  ALL 

MEN  ARE  ALIKE  THE  CHILDREN  OF  GoD. 


*  The  name  of  the  Orator,  who  made  the  last  eloquent  appeal  before  the  Signing 
of  the  Declaration,  is  not  definitely  known,  In  this  speech,  it  is  my  wish  to  °com" 
press  some  portion  of  the  fiery  eloquence  of  the  time  ;  to  embody  in  abrupt  sentences, 
the  very  spirit  of  the  Fourth  of  July,  1776. 


398  THE    FOURTH   OF   JULY.  1776. 


II.— THE    \P08TLE   TO   THE    NEW   WORLD. 

WE  are  with  the  Past  again. 

Yes,  we  are  yonder — far  over  the  Ocean  of  Time,  where  the  Ages  like 
Islands  of  eternal  granite,  rear  their  awful  forms. 

At  this  hour  on  the  shores  of  the  Delaware,  just  where  the  glorious  river 
rich  with  the  tribute  of  mountain  and  valley,  widens  into  a  magnificent  bay, 
at  this  hour  along  yonder  shore,  on  the  slope  of  a  gentle  ascent  blooms  a 
fair  village,  whose  white  houses  rise  in  the  summer  air  from  among  gardens 
and  trees.  Away  from  this  hamlet  spreads  fields,  golden  with  wheat,  or 
emerald  green  with  Indian  corn ;  away  among  these  fields  rank  marshes 
wind  here  and  there,  in  all  the  luxuriance  of  their  untamed  verdure  ;  away 
and  away  from  marsh,  and  field,  and  coast,  and  bay,  green  woods  arise,  their 
thick  foliage  sweeping  into  the  summer  sky. 

A  pleasant  village,  a  glorious  country,  a  green  island,  and  a  lordly  bay. 

Such  it  is  now.  But  we  will  back  into  the  past.  We  will  wander  into 
the  shadows  of  ages.  We  will  stand  face  to  face  with  the  dead. 

There  was  a  day  when  no  village  bloomed  along  this  coast,  nor  white- 
walled  farm-house  arose  from  among  the  orchard  trees.  There  was  a  day 
when  standing  on  this  gentle  ascent,  you  might  look  forth,  and  lo  !  the 
waves  were  dashing  to  your  feet.  Yonder  is  the  green  aisle,  yonder  far 
away,  the  dim  line  of  land  which  marks  the  opposite  shore  of  the  bay,  and 
there,  heaving,  and  glistening,  and  roaring,  the  wide  waters  melt  by  slow 
degrees  into  the  cloudy  sky. 

Look  to  the  south  !  You  behold  the  level  coast — white  sand  mingled 
with  green  reeds — the  wide-spreading  marsh — the  thick  woods,  glorious 
with  oak,  and  beech,  and  chesnut,  and  maple.  Enclosed  in  the  arms  of  the 
green  shore,  the  bay  rolls  yonder,  a  basin  of  tumultuous  waves. 

It  is  noon  :  above  your  head  you  behold  the  leaden  sky.  It  is  noon,  and 
lo !  from  the  broad  green  of  yonder  marsh  a  pale  column  of  blue  smoke 
winds  up  into  the  clouds.  It  is  noon,  and  hark  !  A  shrill,  piercing,  his 
sing  sound — a  footstep — a  form !  A  red  man  rushes  from  yonder  covert, 
bow  in  hand,  while  the  stricken  deer  with  one  proud  bound,  falls  dead  at 
his  feet. 

A  column  of  blue  smoke  from  the  marsh — an  arrow  hissing  through  the 
air — a  red  man's  form  and  a  wounded  deer?  What  does  all  this  mean  ? 
Where  are  we  now  ? 

Hist !  my  friend,  for  we  are  now  in  Indian  land.  Hist !  for  we  are  now 
far  back  among  the  shadows  of  two  hundred  years. 

Yet  we  will  watch  the  motions  of  this  Red  Man.  He  stoops  with  his 
hatchet  of  flint  upraised,  he  stoops  to  inflict  the  last  blow  on  the  writhing 
deer,  when  his  eye  wanders  along  the  surface  of  the  bay.  The  hatchet 


'1HE   APOSTLE    TO    THE    NEW    WORLD.  399 

drops  from  his  hand — he  stands  erect,  with  parted  lips  and  starting  eyes, 
his  hands  half-raised,  in  a  gesture  of  deep  wonder. 

He  stands  on  this  gentle  ascent,  the  waves  breaking  at  his  feet,  the  proud 
maple  spreading  its  leaves  overhead.  He  stands  there,  an  Apollo,  such  as 
the  Grecian  artist  never  sculptured  in  his  wildest  dream,  an  Apollo  fashioned 
by  the  Living  God,  with  a  broad  chest,  faultless  limbs,  quivering  nostrils, 
and  a  flashing  eye.  No  robes  of  rank  upon  that  tawny  breast,  ah,  no  !  A 
single  fold  of  panther's  hide  around  the  loins,  graces  without  concealing,  the 
proportions  of  his  faultless  limbs. 

Tell  us — why  stands  the  lone  Indian  on  this  Delaware  shore,  gazing  in 
mute  wonder  across  the  sweep  of  yonder  magnificent  bay. 

Look,  yes,  far  over  the  waters  look  !  What  see  you  there  ?  The  bay, 
its  waves  plumed  with  snowy  foam :  yes,  the  rolling,  dashing,  panting  bay, 
rushing  from  the  horizon  to  the  shore.  Look  again,  rude  Red  Man  ;  what 
see  you  now  ? 

The  Red  Man  cannot  tell  his  thoughts  ;  his  breast  heaves ;  he  trembles 
from  head  to  foot. 

Strange — yes,  terrible  spectacle  ! 

A  white  speck  gleams  yonder  on  the  horizon ;  it  tosses  into  view,  on  that 
dim  line  where  waves  meet  the  sky.  It  enlarges,  it  spreads,  it  comes  on 
gloriously  over  the  waters  ! 

The  Red  Man  standing  beneath  the  giant  maple,  chilled  to  his  rude  heart 
with  a  strange  awe. 

That  white  speck  is  dim  and  distant  no  longer.  It  is  nearer  now.  It 
spreads  forth  huge  wings  of  snow-white  ;  it  displays  a  massive  body  of  jet- 
black  ;  it  comes  on,  this  strange  wondrous  thing,  tearing  the  waves  with  its 
beak.  Beak  ?  Yes,  for  it  is  a  bird,  a  mighty  bird,  sent  by  Manitto  from 
the  Spirit-Land,  sent  to  save  or  to  destroy  ! 

Gloriously  over  the  bay  it  comes.  Larger  and  larger  yet  it  grows. 
White  and  beautiful  spread  its  fluttering  wings  over  the  dark  waters. 

The  Red  Man  sinks  aghast.  He  prays.  By  the  rustling  in  the  leaves, 
by  the  voice  of  his  own  heart,  he  knows  that  Manitto  hears  his  prayer. 
The  White  Bird  comes  for  good  ! 

Leaving  the  rude  Indian  to  gaze  upon  the  sight  of  wonder  with  his  own 
eyes,  let  us  also  look  upon  it  with  ours. 

A  noble  ship,  dashing  with  wide-spread  sails  over  the  waters  of  the  Dela 
ware  Bay  !  Such  is  the  sight  which  two  hundred  years  ago,  excited  the 
wonder  and  awe  of  the  rude  Indian,  who  never  beheld  ship  or  sail  before. 
Ship  and  sail  had  tossed  and  whitened  along  this  bay  full  many  a  time  be 
fore,  but  the  Indian  dwelling  in  the  fastnesses  of  impenetrable  swamps,  had 
never  laid  eyes  upon  this  wondrous  sight  until  this  hour. 

It  is  near  the  Indian  now.  It  comes  dashing  over  the  waters  toward  the 
Island,  triumphing  over  the  waves,  which  roar  and  foam  in  its  path.  Look  ! 
you  can  see  the  people  on  its  deck,  the  sailors  among  its  white  wings 


THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,    1776. 

And  now  the  anchor  is  cast  overboard  ;  there  is  the  rude  chant  of  the 
sailor's  song  ;  and  a  boat  comes  speeding  over  the  waters,  urged  along  by 
sinewy  arms. 

Yes,  while  the  noble  ship  rides  at  anchor,  under  the  shelter  of  yonder 
isle,  that  small  boat  comes  tossing  over  the  waters.  It  nears  the  spot 
where  the  Indian  stands  ;  he  can  see  the  bearded  faces  and  strange  costume 
of  the  sailors,  he  can  see  that  Form  standing  erect  in  the  prow  of  the  boat. 

That  Form  standing  there  under  the  leaden  sky,  with  the  uncovered 
brow,  bared  to  breeze  and  spray  !  Is  it  the  form  of  a  spirit  sent  by  Manit- 
to  ?  The  Indian  sees  that  form — that  face  !  He  kneels — yes,  beneath  the 
maple  tree,  by  the  bleeding  deer,  tomahawk  in  hand  he  kneels,  gazing  with 
fixed  eyes  upon  that  face.  As  the  boat  comes  near  let  us  look  upon  that 
face,  that  form. 

A  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  with  the  flush  of  manhood  upon  his  cheek, 
its  fire  in  his  eye,  attired  in  a  brown  garb,  plain  to  rudeness,  stands  in  the 
prow  of  the  boat,  as  it  comes  dashing  on. 

And  yet  that  Man  is  the  APOSTLE  OF  THE  LIVING  GOD  TO  THE  NEW 
WORLD. 

Yes,  on  a  mission  as  mighty  as  that  of  Paul,  he  comes.  His  coat  is 
plain,  but  underneath  that  plain  coat  beats  a  heart,  immortal  with  the  pul 
sations  of  a  love  that  grasps  at  all  the  human  race. 

He  is  an  Apostle,  and  yet  his  eyes  are  not  hollow,  his  cheeks  not  gaunt 
and  cadaverous,  his  hair  not  even  changed  to  grey.  An  Apostle  with  a 
young  countenance,  a  clear  blue  eye,  a  cheek  flushed  with  rose-bud  hues, 
a  broad  brow  shadowed  by  light  brown  hair,  a  mouth  whose  red  lips  curve 
with  a  smile  of  angel  like  love. 

An  Apostle  with  a  manly  form,  massive  chest,  broad  shoulders,  and  bear 
ing  far  beyond  the  majesty  of  kings. 

He  stands  in  the  prow,  his  blue  eye  flashing  as  the  boat  nears  land. 
Splash,  splash — do  you  hear  the  oars  ?  Hurrah — hurrah !  How  the 
waves  shout  as  they  break  upon  the  beach. 

The  boat  comes  on,  nearer  and  nearer.  A  swelling  wave  dashes  over 
the  dying  deer,  whilst  the  spray-drops  wet  the  face  of  the  kneeling  Indian. 

The  keel  grates  the  sand. 

For  a  moment  that  man  with  the  fair  countenance  and  chesnut  hair, 
stands  in  the  prow  of  the  boat,  his  blue  eyes  upraised  to  God.  For  a  mo 
ment  he  stands  there,  and  behold  !  The  clouds  are  severed  yonder.  A 
gush  of  sunshine  pours  through  their  parting  folds,  and  illumines  the 
Apostle's  brow.  In  that  light  he  looks  divine. 

Say  through  those  parting  clouds,  cannot  you  see  the  face  of  the  Saviour 
bending  down,  and  smiling  eternal  love  upon  his  Apostle's  brow  ? 

For  a  moment  the  Apostle  stood  there,  and  then — with  no  weapon  by  hi* 
side,  nor  knife,  nor  pistol,  nor  powder-horn — but  with  bve  beaming  from 
his  brow,  that  man  stepped  gently  on  the  sand 


THE    APOSTLE    TO    THE    NEW    WORLD.  401 

The  Indian  looked  up  and  saw  that  face,  and  was  not  afraid.  Love, 
gentleness,  God— these  were  written  on  that  face. 

Was  it  not  a  beautiful  scene  ? 

The  kneeling  Indian,  his  knife  sunken  in  the  earth,  the  dying  deer  by 
his  side,  looks  up  with  a  loving  awe  gleaming  from  his  red  face.  The 
Apostle  standing  there  upon  that  patch  of  sod,  the  surf  breaking  round  his 
feet,  the  sunlight  bursting  on  his  brow.  The  bearded  sailors,  their  faces 
hushed  with  deep  awe  ;  while  their  oars  hang  suspended  in  mid-air. —  On 
one  side  the  leafy  maple — on  the  other  the  river,  the  ship,  the  island,  and 
the  wide  extending  bay. 

And  then  the  blue  sky,  looking  out  from  amid  a  wilderness  of  floating 
clouds,  as  though  God  himself  smiled  down  his  blessing  on  the  scene. 

That  was  the  picture,  my  friends,  and  0,  by  all  the  memories  of  Home 
and  Freedom,  paint  that  picture  in  your  hearts. 

Columbus,  with  his  eye  fixed  on  land — the  land  of  the  New  World — 
Pizarro  gazing  on  the  riches  of  Peru,  Cortez  with  the  Temples  of  Monte- 
zuma  at  his  feet — these  are  mighty  pictures,  but  here  was  a  mightier  than 
them  all. 

Mighter  than  that  historic  image  of  Columbus  gazing  for  the  first  time 
on  land  ?  Yes  !  For  Columbus  but  discovered  a  New  World,  while  this 
Apostle  first  planted  on  its  shores  the  seed  of  a  mighty  tree,  which  had  lain 
buried  for  sixteen  hundred  years,  beneath  an  ocean  of  blood. 

The  shade  of  that  tree  is  now  cast  abroad,  far  over  this  Continent,  far 
over  the  World.  That  tree  was  called  TOLERATION.  In  the  day  of  its 
planting,  it  was  a  strange  thing.  The  Nations  feared  it.  But  now  watered 
by  God  it  grows,  and  on  its  golden  fruit  you  may  read  these  words  : 

"  EVERY  MAN  HATH  A  RIGHT  TO  WORSHIP  GOD  AFTER  THE  DICTATES  OF 
HIS  OWN  CONSCIENCE." 

For  a  moment,  spell-bound,  the  Indian  looked  up  into  the  Apostle's  face 
Then  that  Apostle  slowly  advancing  over  the  sod,  beneath  the  shade  of  the 
Maple  tree,  clasped  him  by  the  hand,  and  called  him  BROTHER  ! 

Soon  a  fire  flamed  there  upon  the  sod.  Soon  columns  of  blue  smoke 
wound  upward,  in  the  thick  green  leaves  of  the  Maple  tree. 

Roar  O,  surf!  roll  ye  clouds!  beam  O,  sun!  For  now  beneath  the 
Maple  tree,  on  the  shores  of  the  Delaware,  the  Apostle  in  the  plain  garb 
shares  the  venison  and  corn  of  the  rude  Indian,  sits  by  his  side,  while  the 
red  woman  stealing  from  the  shadows,  prepares  the  pipe  of  peace,  as  her 
large  dark  eyes  are  fixed  upon  that  n-anly  face. 

Around  scattered  over  the  sod,  were  grouped  the  stout  forms  of  the 
sailors.  In  the  distance  the  ship,  like  a  giant  bird,  tossed  slowly  on  the 
waves.  The  summer  breeze  bent  the  reeds  upon  the  green  isle,  and  played 
among  the  leaves  of  the  Maple  tree.  The  sky  above  was  clear,  the  last 


402  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,    1776. 

cloud  huge  and  snowy,  lay  piled  away,  between  the  water  and  the  skf ,  oa 
the  distant  horizon. 

It  was  a  calm  hour. 

The  Pipe  of  Peace  was  lighted — its  smoke  arose,  curling  around  the 
beaming  face  of  the  Apostle,  while  the  red  man  looked  upon  him  in  rude 
love,  and  the  woman,  her  form  thrown  carelessly  on  the  sod,  her  long  hair 
showering  in  glossy  blackness  to  her  waist,  gazed  in  his  blue  eyes  with  a 
mute  reverence,  as  though  she  beheld  the^  Messenger  of  God. 

That  Apostle  built  a  Nation  without  a  Priest,  without  an  Oath,  without  a 
Blow.  Yet  he  never  wronged  the  poor  Indian.* 

That  Apostle  reared  the  Altar  of  Jesus,  on  the  Delaware  shore,  and 
planted  the  foundations  of  a  Mighty  People,  amid  dim  old  forests.  Yet  he 
never  wronged  the  poor  Indian. 

He  died,  with  his  pillow  smoothed  by  the  blessings  of  the  rude  Indian 
race.  To  this  hour  the  Indian  Mother,  driven  far  beyond  the  Mississippi, 
driven  even  from  the  memory  of  the  Delaware,  takes  her  wild  boy  upon 
her  knee,  and  telte  him  the  wild  tradition  of  the  GOOD  MIQUON. 

My  friends,  when  I  think  of  this  great  man  who  in  a  dark  age,  preached 
TOLERATION,  or  in  other  words,  the  Love  of  Jesus,  a  dream  rushes  upon 
my  soul. 

One  night  in  a  dream,  I  beheld  a  colossal  rock,  a  mountain  of  granite, 
rising  from  illimitable  darkness  into  bright  sunshine.  Around  its  base  wa* 
midnight ;  half-way  up  was  twilight ;  on  the  very  summit  shone  the  light  of 
God's  countenance. 

A  voice  whispered — This  awful  rock,  built  upon  midnight,  girdled  by 
twilight,  with  the  light  of  God's  face  shining  upon  its  brow,  this  awful  rock 
is  The  HISTORY  OF  THE  WORLD. 

Far  down  in  blackest  midnight,  I  beheld  certain  lurid,  horrible  shape*, 
going  wildly  to  and  fro.  These,  said  the  voice,  these  are  the  butchers  of 
the  human  race,  called  CONQUERORS. 

Half-way  up  in  the  dim  twilight,  a  multitude  of  Popes,  Reformers,  Pre 
tended  Prophets  and  Fanatics,  were  groping  their  way  with  stumbling  font- 
steps,  darkness  below  and  twilight  around  them.  These,  said  the  voice.  Are 
the  numerous  race  of  CREED-MAKERS,  who  murder  millions  in  the  r</',ie 
of  God. 

But  far  up  this  terrible  rock, — yes,  yonder  in  the  eternal  sunshine,  "     ich 


NOTE. — It  is  stated,  (whether  by  history  or  by  tradition  only  I  am  not  r*  »  med, 
that  William  Penn  first  put  his  foot  on  New  World  soil,  on  the  shore  oppoi ,  ,  Reedy 
Island,  at  the  head  of  Delaware  Bay,  where  now  stands  and  flourishes  tl  leasant 
village  of  Port  Penn.  From  this  legend  of  William  Penn,  we  will  pas/  '  the  life 
of  his  Divine  Master,  who  first  asserted  the  truth  which  the  Declare  >i  of  In 
dependence  promulgated,  after  a  lapse  of  eighteen  hundred  years — "A  /EX  ARI 

ALIKE  THE  CHILDREN  OF  GoD." 


"BACK   EIGHTEEN    HUNDRED    YEARS.'  403 

broke  upon  the  highest  point  of  its  summit,  side  by  side  with  SAINT  PAUL, 
and  the  Apostles  stood  a  commanding  form,  clad  in  an  unpretending  garb, 
with  a  mild  glory  playing  over  his  brow  ;  that  form,  the  Apostle  of  God  to 
the  New  World,  WILLIAM  PENN. 


III.— "BACK  EIGHTEEN  HUNDRED  YEARS!" 

ERE  we  come  down  to  the  days  of  the  Revolution,  let  us  go  on  a  journey 
into  a  far  country  and  a  long  past  age. 

Kings  and  Priests  have  asked  us,  from  whence  do  you  derive  the  princi 
ple — All  men  in  the  sight  of  God  are  equal — from  what  work  of  philoso 
phy,  from  what  dogma  of  musty  parchments,  or  thesis  of  monkish  schools. 
From  none  of  these  !  We  go  higher,  for  the  origin  of  the  noble  words 
contained  in  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  even  to  the  foot  of  that 
Judean  mount,  which  one  day  beheld  a  universe  in  mourning  for  the  crimes 
of  ages. 

We  pass  by  our  Kings  and  Priests  ;  we  leave  behind  us  the  long  column 
of  crowned  robbers,  and  anointed  hypocrites  ;  to  the  altar  where  the  light 
burns,  and  the  truth  shines  forever,  we  hasten,  with  bended  head  and  rev 
erent  eyes. 

Come  with  me  to  a  far  distant  age. 

There  was  a  day  when  the  summer  sun  shone  from   the  centre   of  the 
deep  blue  sky,  in  the  far  eastern  clime. 
It  was  the  hour  of  high  noon. 

Come  with  me — yes — while  the  noonday  sun  is  pouring  his  fierce  rays 
over  the  broad  landscape,  let  us  for  a  moment  turn  aside  into  the  deep  woods 
— the  deep  green  woods,  not  far  from  yonder  town. 
What  see  you  her*1  ? 

Here  sheltered  from  the  rays  of  the  sun  by  a  thick  canopy  of  leaves,  a 
quiet  stream  stretches  away  into  the  dim  woods. 

Is  it  not  beautiful  ?  The  water  so  deep,  so  clenr — trembling  gently 
along  its  shores,  fragrant  with  myrtle — the  thick  canopy  of  leaves  overhead 
— the  white  lilies  on  yonder  bank,  dipping  gently  into  the  still  waves  ! 

There  is  the  balm  of  summer  flowers,  the  stillness  of  noonday,  the  tran 
quil  beauty  of  calm  waters  and  stout  forest  trees — all  are  here  ! 

And  look  yonder  !  (here,  under  the  boughs  of  that  spreading  cedar,  a 
fountain  of  dark  stone  breaks  on  your  eye. 

It  is  but  a  pile  of  dark  stone,  and  yet,  cool  water,  trickling  from  the  rock 

above,  shines  and  glimmers  there — and  yet,  hanging  from  the  boughs  of 

that  giant  cedar,  thick  clusters  of  grapes  dip  into  the  waters  of  that  spring, 

—and  lo  !  a  single  long  gleam  of  sunlight  streams  through  the  thick  boughs 

upon  the  cold  water,  and  the  purple  grapes. 

Is  it  not  a  beautiful  picture,  nestling  away  here  in  dim  woods,  while  the 
noonday  sun  pours  its  fierce  rays  over  hill  and  valley,  far  along  the  land  T 


404  THE    FOURTH    OF   JULV,   1776. 

And  yet  we  must  leave  this  scene  of  quiet  beauty,  for  the  hot  air  and  the 
burning  sun. 

Look  there,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  giant  cedar,  beside  the  fountain,  mur 
muring  such  low  music  on  the  air,  look  yonder  and  behold  a  path  winding 
up,  into  the  still  woods. 

We  will  follow  that  path,  up  and  on  with  tired  steps  we  go,  we  leave  the 
woods,  we  stand  in  the  open  air  under  the  burning  sun. 

There,  not  a  hundred  paces  from  our  feet,  the  white  walls  of  a  quiet  town 
break  into  the  deep  blue  of  the  summer  sky. 

Come  with  me,  to  that  town  ;  over  the  hot  dust  of  the  flinty  road,  come 
with  me  ! 

Let  us  on  through  the  still  streets — for  the  heat  is  so  intense  that  the 
rich  and  the  proud  have  retired  to  their  homes — nay,  even  the  poor  have 
fallen  exhausted  at  their  labor.  Let  us  on  ;  without  pausing  to  look  in  upon 
that  garden,  adorned  with  temples,  musical  with  fountains,  with  the  rich 
man  reclining  on  his  bed  of  flowers. — 

Let  us  not  even  pause  to  look  in  through  the  doors  of  yonder  gorgeous 
temple,  where  pompous  men  in  glittering  robes,  and  long  beards  are  mumbling 
over  their  drowsy  prayers. 

Here  we  are  in  the  still  streets — still  as  midnight,  even  at  broad  noon — 
and  around  us  rise  the  white  walls  of  rich  men's  mansions,  and  the  glitter 
ing  dome  of  the  synagogue. 

Let  us  ask  the  name  of  this  town  !  Let  us  ask  yonder  solitary  man,  who 
with  his  hands  folded  among  his  robes  of  fine  linen,  his  long  beard  sweep 
ing  his  breast — his  calm  self-complacent  brow  is  striding  haughtily  along  the 
deserted  streets. 

"Tell  us  good  sir,  the  name  of  this  town  !"  That  richly  clad  way-farer 
answers  one  question  with  a  haughty  scowl,  and  passes  on. 

You  perceive  that  man  is  too  holy  to  answer  the  question  of  sinful  men 
--his  robe  is  too  rich,  his  phylactery  too  broad — his  knowledge  of  the  law 
too  great  to  speak  to  men  of  common  garb.  That  is  a  holy  man,  a  Phari 
see. 

And  this  town  is  the  town  of  Nazareth  ;  and  we  stand  here  tired  and 
fainting  in  the  dusty  streets  ;  with  the  drowsy  prayers  from  that  synagogue, 
the  music  of  rich  men's  fountains  breaking  on  our  heavy  ears. 

But  hark  !  The  deep  silence  of  this  noonday  hour  is  broken  by  sharp, 
quick  sound — the  clink  of  a  hammer,  the  grating  of  a  saw  ! 

Let  us  follow  that  sound  ! 

Look  there,  between  those  two  massive  domes  of  rich  men,  there,  as  if 
crouching  away  from  the  hot  sun,  in  the  thick  shadow,  nestles  the  rude  hut 
of  a  Carpenter.  Yes,  the  rude  hut  of  a  Carpenter,  with  the  sound  of  ham 
mer  and  saw,  echoing  from  that  solitary  window. 

We  approach  that  window — we  look  in  !  What  is  the  strange  sight 
we  see  ? 


"BACK   EIGHTEEN   HUNDRED   YEARS."  406 

Strange  sight  ?     Call  you  this  a  strange  sight,  when  it  is  nothing  more 

than  a  young  man,  clad  in  the  laborer's  garments,  the  laborer's  sweat  upon 
his  brow,  bending  down  to  his  labor,  amid  piles  of  timber  and  unhewn 
boards Call  you  this  a  strange  sight  ? 

Why  it  is  but  a  sight  of  every  day  life — a  common  sight,  a  familiar  thing, 
a  dull,  every  day  fact. 

But  hold  a  moment, 

Look  as  that  young  man  raises  his  head,  and  wipes  the  thick  drops  from 
his  brow— -look  upon  that  face  !  Look  there,  and  forget  the  Carpenter's 
shop,  the  boards,  the  hammer,  the  saw,  nay,  even  the  rough  laborer's  dress. 

It  is  is  a  young  face — the  face  of  a  boy — but  O,  the  calm  beauty  of  that 
hair,  flowing  to  the  shoulders  in  waving  locks — mingling  in  its  hues,  the 
purple  of  twilight  with  the  darkness  of  midnight — O,  the  deep  thought  ot 
those  large,  full  eyes,  O,  the  calm  radiance  of  that  youthful  brow  ! 

Ah,  that  is  a  face  to  look  upon  and  love — and  kneel — and  worship — even 
though  the  form  is  clad  in  the  rough  carpenter's  dress.  Those  eyes,  how 
deep  they  gleam,  more  beautiful  than  the  stars  at  dead  of  night;  that  brow, 
how  awfully  it  brightens  into  the  Majesty  of  God  ! 

And  now,  as  you  are  looking  through  the  window — hold  your  breath  as 
you  look — do  not,  O,  do  not  disturb  the  silence  of  this  scene  ! 

As  that  boy — that  apprentice  boy — stands  there,  with  a  saw  in  one  hand, 
the  other  laid  on  a  pile  of  boards — a  strange  thought  comes  over  his  soul ! 

He  is  thinking  of  his  brothers— the  Brotherhood  of  Toil  !  That  vast 
famtty,  who  now  swelter  in  dark  mines,  bend  in  the  fields,  under  the  hot 
sun,  or  toil,  toil,  toil  on,  toil  forever  in  the  Workshops  of  the  World. 

He  is  thinking  of  his  brothers  in  the  huts  and  dens  of  cities  ;  sweltering 
in  rags  and  misery  and  disease.  O,  he  is  thinking  of  the  Workmen  of  the 
World,  the  Mechanics  of  the  earth,  whose  dark  lot  has  been  ever  and  yet 
ever — to  dig  that  others  may  sleep — to  sow  that  others  may  reap — to  coin 
their  groans  and  sweat  and  blood,  into  gold  for  the  rich  man's  chest,  into 
purple  robes  for  his  form  and  crowns  for  his  brow.  This  had  been  the  fate 
of  the  Mechanic — the  Poor  man  from  immemorial  ages  ! 

Never  in  all  the  dark  history  of  man,  had  the  Mechanic  once  looked  from 
his  toil — his  very  heart  had  always  beat  to  that  dull  sound — Toil— Toil 
Toil  ! 

Never  since  the  day  when  Jehovah  gave  the  word,  "  By  the  sweat  of  thy 
brow  thou  shall  live  !"  never  had  that  Great  Army  of  Mechanics  once  looked 
up,  or  felt  the  free  blood  dance  in  their  veins. 

By  the  sweat  of  the  brow  ?  Was  it  thus  the  Poor  man  was  to  live  ?  And 
how  had  he  lived  for  four  thousand  years  ? 

Not  only  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  but  the  blood  of  his  heart,  the  groans 
of  his  soul. 

This  had  been  the  fate  of  the  Mechanic — the  Poor  Man,  for  four  thousand 
years. 


406  THE   FOURTH  OF   JULY,    1776. 

And  now,  that  Young  Carpenter  stood  there,  in  the  Carpenter  s  shop  ol 
Nazareth,  thinking  overUhe  wrongs  of  the  Poor,  his  brothers,  his  sisters, 
THE  PooRjA 

At  that  moment,  as  if  a  flood  of  light  from  the  throne  of  God,  had  poured 
down  into  his  soul,  that  young  Mechanic  stood  therer  with  an  awful  light 
hovering  over  his  brow. 

At  that  moment  he  felt  the  Godhead  fill  his  veins — at  that  moment  he 
stood  there  a  God.  Yes,  a  God  in  a  Mechanic's  gaberdine;  with  carpen 
ter's  tools  in  his  hand. 

A!  that  moment  he  felt  the  full  force  of  his  mission  on  earth  ;  yes,  stand 
ing  there,  his  brow  gleaming,  his  eyes  flashing  with  Eternal  light,  Jesus  the 
Carpenter  of  Nazareth,  resolved  to  redress  the  wrongs  of  the  Poor. 

And  as  he  stands  there,  behold.  A  mildly  beautiful  woman,  steals  from 
yonder  door,  and  pauses  on  tip-toe  at  the  very  shoulder  of  the  young  man  ; 
herself  unseen,  she  stands  with  hands  half-raised,  gazing  upon  her  son,  with 
her  large  full  eyes. 

That  mildly  beautiful  woman  is  Mary  the  Virgin-Mother. 

Is  it  not  a  picture  full  of  deep  meaning  ? There  stands  the  Bride  of 

the  Living  God,  gazing  upon  that  young  Carpenter,  whose  body  is  human— 
whose  soul  is  very  God ! 

From  that  moment,  these  words  became  linked  in  one — JESUS  AND  MAN. 

Yes,  follow  the  Blessed  Nazarene  over  the  dust  of  the  highway,  hehold 
him  speaking  hope  to  the  desolate,  health  to  the  sick,  life  to  the  dead,  eter 
nal  life  to  the  Poor  !  Last  night  he  had  his  couch  on  yonder  mountain-top 
— to-night  he  shares  yon  poor  crust ;  to-morrow  he  goes  on  his  way  again  ; 
his  mission  still  the  Redemption  of  the  Poor. 

Does  he  share  the  rich  man's  banquet  or  the  rich  man's  couch  ?  Is  he 
found  waiting  by  rich  men's  elbows,  speaking  soft  things  to  their  drowsy 
souls  !  Ah,  no  !  Ah,  no  ! 

For  the  rich,  the  proud,  the  oppressor,  his  brow  darkens  with  wrath,  his 
tongue  drops  biting  scorn. 

But  to  the  Poor — to  his  poor.  Ah,  how  that  mild  face  looks  in  upon 
their  homes,  speaking  within  dark  huts,  great  words,  which  shall  never  die; 
ah,  how  the  poor  love  him  ;  their  Apostle,  their  Redeemer,  more  than  all, 
their  brother. 

Follow  him  there  by  the  pool  of  Siloam — look !  A  man  clad  in  a  faded 
garb,  with  long  hair  sweeping  down  his  face, — that  face  covered  with  sweat 
and  dust — stamped  with  the  ineffable  Godhead — goes  there  by  the  waves 
of  dark  Galilee — communes  there  at  night  with  his  soul— speaks  to  the  stars 
which  he  first  spake  into  being ! 

Or  far  down  in  the  shades  of  Gethsernane,  there  he  kneels  pleading,  with 
bloody  drops  upon  his  brow,  for  his  brothers,  his  sisters  the  poor — 

Or  yonder  on  that  grim  heighth  frowning  over  Jerusalem,  nailed  to  the 
Cross  in  scorn — pain,  ir.tense  pain  quivering  through  his  racked  sinews — 


THE   WILDERNESS.  407 

blood  dripping  from  his  hands  and  from  his  thorn-crowned  brow — look 
there,  at  the  moment  when  it  is  made  his  fierce  trial,  to  doubt  his  Divine 
Mission ! 

Look  as  the  Awful  Godhead  is  struggling  with  his  human  nature.  Hark 
to  that  groan  going  up  to  God,  fron1  that  Man  of  Nazareth,  stretched  there 
upon  the  cross  ! 

"  ELOI — ELOI — LAMA  SABACTHANI  !" 

My  God  !     My  God  !     Why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ! 

I  could  bear  the  scorn  of  these  H^h  Priests  ;  I  could  bear  this  cross 
these  bloody  hands,  this  streaming  brow  ! 

Nay,  I  could  bear  that  very  People,  whose  sick  I  have  healed,  whose 
dead  I  have  raised,  the  very  People,  who  yest^day  strewing  palm  blanches 
in  my  way,  shouted  Hosannah  to  my  name  ;  I  could  bear  that  these  People 
— these  brothers  of  my  soul — should  have  been  the  first  to  shriek — Crucify 
him,  Crucify  him. 

But  Thou  O  God— Wh/  hast  thou  forsaken  me  ! 

Ah,  was  not  that  a  dark  hour,  when  the  Man  of  Nazareth  doubted  his  mis 
sion  to  the  Poor,  to  Man — when  God  in  human  flesh  doubted  his  Divinity  ? 

And  why  this  life  of  Toil — this  bloody  sweat  in  Gethsemane — this  awful 
scene — these  bloody  hands,  this  thorn-crowned  brow — this  terrible  Doubt 
oil  Calvary  ? 

Was  it  only  to  root  the  Kings  more  firmly  on  their  thrones — to  grind  the 
faces  of  the  poor  yet  deeper  in  the  dust ! 

No  !  No  !  The  bloody  sweat  of  Gethsemane — the  groans  of  Calvary— 
the  soul  of  Jesus  answers  no  !  no  !  no  ! 

Yes,  to-day  from  that  Carpenter's  shop  in  Nazareth,  a  Voice  speaks  out\ 
to  the  workshops  of  the  world — that  voice  speaks  to  Toil — yes,  to  dusty,  \ 
tired,  half-clad,  starving  Toil— that  voice  speaks,  and  says,—"  LOOK  UP 

BROTHER,  FOR  THE  DAY  OF  YOUR  REDEMPTION  DRAWETH  NEAR  !" 

Ere  we  survey  the  result  of  this  great  mission  of  the  Saviour,  its  action 
upon  Man,  after  the  lapse  of  eighteen  hundred  years,  we  will  behold  two 
scenes  in  his  life,  and  learn  the  solemn  lesson  which  they  teach. 

V.— THE   WILDERNESS. 

THE  WILDERNESS,  dark  and  vast,  illumined  by  the  faint  light  of  the  break 
ing  dawn  ! 

It  is  a  wild  place,  this  broken  plain,  gloomy  by  day,  terrible  by  night ; 
ghostly  when  the  cold  moonbeam  shines  over  these  rugged  rocks.  On 
every  side,  from  the  barren  earth,  rade  shapes  of  granite  rock,  struggle  into 
the  dim  light  of  morning.  Here  are  grand  old  trees,  towering  aloft,  strong 
with  the  growth  of  ages,  their  colossal  trunks  looming  through  the  mists  of 
the  dawn,  like  the  columns  of  some  heathen  temple,  made  unholy  by  the 
rites  of  bloody  sacrifice. 


408  THE    FOURTH    OF   JULY,    1776. 

It  is  the  early  dawn,  and  yonder  beyond  this  dreary  plain,  rugged  with 
scattered  masses  of  antediluvian  rock,  yonder  beyond  those  aged  trees,  the 
oaks  grouped  in  a  venerable  circle,  the  palm  rising  in  solitary  magnificence, 
we  behold  a  gloomy  waste  of  dark  water,  heaving  sullenly  in  the  first  beam 
of  the  day. 

Ah,  that  waste  of  dark  water  is  invested  with  a  fearful  gloom  ;  silence 
deeper  than  the  grave  broods  over  its  impenetrable  deep,  like  a  raven  over 
the  breast  of  the  dead.  Here  and  there,  along  the  black  shores,  are  scat 
tered  dismal  trees,  stunted  in  their  growth,  blasted  by  lightning,  withered  in 
trunk  and  branch,  as  with  the  weariness  of  long  ages.  Here  and  there, 
from  the  edge  of  its  sullen  waters,  huge  masses  of  dark  rock  arise,  their 
fantastic  shapes  presenting  images  of  hideous  meaning,  some  rising  like 
fabled  demons,  some  like  beasts  of  prey,  some  like  men,  transformed  by 
infernal  passions,  into  monuments  of  despair. 

Altogether  this  dread,  dark  lake,  this  silent  wilderness,  strikes  your  heart 
with  a  strange  awe. 

Let  us  seat  ourselves  upon  this  rude  stone,  and  see  the  morning  come 
on,  in  solitary  grandeur.  Let  us  behold  those  snowy  mists  moving  slovily 
over  the  dark  waters,  like  spirits  of  the  blest  over  shades  of  unutterable 
woe.  Hark — a  sound,  harsh,  crashing,  and  loud  as  thunder.  In  a  moment 
it  is  gone.  It  was  but  the  last  groan  of  an  aged  Oak,  which,  eaten  by  the 
tooth  of  ages,  has  fallen  with  one  sudden  plunge  into  the  waters  of  the 
lake.  All  is  silent  again,  but  such  a  silence — O,  it  chills  the  blood  to  dwell 
in  this  place  of  shadows  ! 

Tell  us,  do  fair  forms  ever  visit  these  gloomy  wastes,  do  the  voices  of 
home  ever  break  in  upon  this  heavy  air,  do  kind  faces  ever  beam  upon  these 
rugged  rocks  ?  Tell  us,  does  anything  wearing  the  form  of  man  ever  press 
this  barren  earth  with  a  footstep  ? 

The  raven  croaking  from  the  limb  of  a  blasted  tree,  the  wolf,  gaunt  and 
grim,  stealing  from  his  cave  by  the  waters,  the  hyena  howling  his  unearthly 
laugh,  these  all  may  be  here,  but  man — why  should  he  ever  dare  this  soli 
tude,  more  terrible  than  the  war  of  battle  ? 

Well  may  this  place  seem  terrible  by  day,  ghostly  by  night,  blasted,  as 
with  the  judgment  of  God  at  all  times  !  For  yonder  beneath  those  dark 
waters,  heaving  with  sullen  surges  on  the  blackened  shore  lies  entombed 
in  perpetual  judgment,  the  Cities  of  the  Plain  ! 

Yes,  there  beneath  those  waves  are  mansions,  streets,  gardens,  temples 
and  domes,  all  crowded  with  people,  all  thronged  with  a  silent  multidude, 
who  stand  in  the  doors,  or  throng  the  pathways,  or  kneel  in  the  halls  of 
worship,  ghostly  skeleton  people,  who  never  speak,  nor  move,  nor  brenthr, 
but  they  are  there,  deep  beneath  the  bituminous  waves,  petrified  monnnipnts 
of  Almighty  vengeance.  The  cities  of  the  Plain  are  there,  Sodom  rnd 
ttomorrah. 

Therefore  is  this  desert  so  silent,  so  breathlesly  desolate  ;  therefore  does 


THE    WILDERNESS  409 

ihe  cry  of  yonder  raven,  washing  his  plumage  in  the  dark  waters,  come 
over  the  waste,  like  the  knell  of  a  lost  world. 

We  are  in  the  desert,  and  the  lake  before  us,  is  the  Dead  Sea. 

Yet  hold — there  is  a  footstep  breaking  upon  the  silence  of  the  desert  air. 

Lo  !  From  behind  yonder  granite  rock,  a  form  comes  slowly  into  view, 
a  form  rounded  with  the  outlines  of  early  manhood,  attired  in  the  -ud« 
gaberdine  of  toil. 

Who  is  he  that  comes  slowly  on,  with  gently-folded  arms  and  downcast 
head,  framed  in  the  curling  beard  and  flowing  hair  ? 

Let  us  look  well  upon  him  ! 

He  wears  the  garb  of  labor ;  his  feet  from  which  the  worn  sandals  have 
fallen  away,  are  wounded  by  the  desert  flint.  Slowly  he  comes,  his  head 
upon  his  breast,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  earth.  Yet  we  may  see  that  hia 
form  combines  in  one  view,  all  that  is  graceful  in  outline,  or  manly  in  vigor, 
or  beautiful  in  gesture. 

Hold — and  gaze  !     For  he  lifts  his  head. 

Ah  why  do  we  desire  to  kneel — to  love — to  worship  him,  this  man  in 
the  rude  garb  ?  Why  do  our  eyes  seek  that  face  with  a  glance  of  deep  and 
absorbing  interest  ?  Why  do  broken  ejaculations  bubble  from  our  full 
hearts,  while  our  souls,  all  at  once,  seem  lifted  beyond  these  houses  of 
clay  ? 

Look  upon  that  faee  and  find  your  answer. 

P,  the  rapture  of  that  calm  white  brow,  O,  the  speechless  love  of  those 
large  full  eyes,  O,  the  eloquence  of  those  gently-parted  lips  !  It  is  a  young 
face,  with  flowing  hair,  and  curling  beard,  whose  hues  combine  the  dark 
ness  of  midnight,  the  rich  purple  of  a  summer's  eve,  while  the  brow  is 
clear  as  alabaster,  the  eyes  dark  with  that  excess  of  melting  radiance.  That 
face  touches  your  inmost  soul. 

Let  us  kneel,  let  us  worship  here,  for  the  Carpenter  of  Nazareth  comes 
near  us,  clad  in  the  garments  of  toil,  yet  with  the  Godhead  beaming  serenely 
from  his  radiant  brow. 

Here,  in  this  desert  he  has  wandered  forty  days  and  forty  nights.  Not 
a  crust  has  passed  those  lips,  not  a  cup  of  water  moistened  that  throat, 
whose  beautiful  outline  is  seen  above  the  collar  of  his  coarse  garb. 

Here  he  has  dwelt  for  forty  days  companioned  by  day  with  silence,  by 
night  with  the  stars,  at  all  times  by  an  Almighty  presence,  shining  unutter 
able  images  of  beauty  into  his  soul. 

Ah,  in  this  time,  his  heart  has  throbbed  for  man  ;  yes,  in  the  workshop 
degraded  by  oppression  in  the  mine,  burdened  by  the  chain,  in  the  field  with 
the  hot  sun  pouring  over  his  brow,  still  Man  his  Brother  ! 

Yes — beneath  the  calm  light  of  the  stars,  amid  the  silence  of  noonday, 
at  twilight,  when  the  long  shadows  of  the  palms,  rested  upon  the  bosom  of 
ihe  Dead  Sea,  has  his  great  mission  come  home  to  his  soul,  calling  him 
vmh  its  awful  voice  to  tro  forth  and  free  his  brother  ! 


410  THE   FOURTH   OF  JULY,  1776. 

And  the  serene  moon,  shining  from  the  sky  of  impenetrable  blue,  has 
oftentimes  revealed  that  earnest  face  stamped  with  unutterable  thoughts, 
lifted  up  to  God,  glowing  already  with  a  consciousness  of  the  dim  future. 

O,  my  friends,  when  I  follow  this  pure  Being  on  his  desert  way,  and 
mark  his  tears  as  they  fall  for  the  sorrows  of  Man,  and  listen  to  his  sighs, 
as  his  heart  beats  with  warm  pulsations  for  the  slave  of  toil,  or  see  him 
standing  on  yonder  cliff,  his  form  rising  in  the  moonbeams,  as  he  stretches 
forth  his  hands  to  the  sky  and  whispers  an  earnest  prayer  to  God,  for  the 
Millions  of  the  human  race,  who  have  been  made  the  sport  of  Priest  and 

King,  for  a  dreary  length  of  ages :then  I  feel  my  heart  also  warm,  with 

Hope  that  the  Day  is  near,  when  Labor  shall  bless  the  whole  earth,  when 
Man  shall  indeed  be  free  ! 

This  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  dwelling  for  forty  days  and  nights,  alone  with 
his  Soul,  has  ever  for  me,  a  calm,  divine  beauty. 

But  lo !  he  hungers,  he  thirsts  at  last.  Where  shall  he  find  bread  or 
water  ?  Not  from  these  rocks,  covered  with  rank  moss,  shall  grow  the 
bread  that  nourishes,  not  from  the  dead  wave  of  yonder  sea,  shall  the  bent 
palm-leaf  be  filled  with  pure  water. 

Jesus  hungers,  thirsts  ;  the  hot  sky  is  above,  the  arid  earth  below.  But 
neither  bread  nor  water  meet  his  gaze. 

At  this  moment,  hark !  A  footstep  is  heard,  and  a  man  of  royal  pre 
sence,  clad  in  purple  robes,  glistening  with  gems  and  gold,  and  contrasted 
with  the  snowy  whiteness  of  fine  linen,  comes  striding  into  view,  with  the 
f  air  of  majesty  and  worldly  power.  His  ruddy  countenance  blushes  with 

(the  genial  glow  of  the  grape ;  his  eyes  sparkle  with  the  fire  of  sensual 
passion ;  his  dark  hair  curls  around  a  brow,  which  lofty  and  massive,  is 
stamped  with  that  cunning,  which  among  the  people  of  this  world,  often 
passes  for  Intellect. 

In  fact,  he  stands  before  us  the  inpersonation  of  Worldly  Power,  a  goodly 
looking  man  withal,  whom  it  were  policy  and  prudence  to  bow  down  and 
reverence. 

With  his  sandalled  feet,  glittering  with  diamonds  that  gleam  as  he  walks, 
ne  comes  on  :  he  stands  before  the  humbly-clad  Jesus.  At  a  glance,  he 
reads  the  light  of  Godhead  on  that  brow,  he  feels  the  immeasurable  power 
of  those  earnest  eyes. 

Come !  he  cries,  taking  Jesus  of  Nazareth  by  the  hand,  come  !  And 
the  desert  is  passed,  and  rocks  are  gone,  and  the  Dead  sea  has  faded  from 
the  view.  Come  !  repeats  the  Prince  of  this  World,  and  as  he  speaks, 
behold  !  A  mountain  swells  before  them,  towering  above  the  plain,  greeo 
with  the  venerable  cedars  and  grey  with  colossal  rocks. 

Come  !  re-echoes  the  Prince,  and  up  the  steep  mountain  paths,  ana 
through  the  deep  mountain  shadows,  and  along  the  dark  mountain  ravines, 
they  hurry  on.  Now  they  are  in  the  clouds,  now  trhe  mists  of  the  summit 
gather  them  in. 


THE   WILDERNESS.  41  { 

At  last,  upon  this  rock,  projecting  over  an  awful  abyss,  they  stand,  Jesus 
af  Nazareth  in  his  laborer's  garb,  and  the  Prince  of  this  world  in  his  royal 
robes. 

Ah,  what  a  doleful  mockery  of  speech  and  common  sense,  was  that 
which  painted  the  Incarnation  of  Evil,  in  a  hideous  shape,  with  all  the 
grotesque  mummery  of  satyr's  hoof  and  tail,  poor  as  the  poorest  of  earth's 
toiling  children  !  Whom  could  Satan  ever  tempt  in  a  garb  like  this  ?  No, 
the  Prince  of  this  World,  when  he  comes  to  tempt  Man  from  the  voice  of 
God,  speaking  forever  in  his  inmost  soul,  comes  in  purple  robes  and  fine 
linen,  with  the  flash  of  grapes  upon  his  cheeks,  the  well-filled  purse  in  his 
fair  hands,  the  marks  of  good  cheer  and  rich  banquets  upon  his  portly  form. 

So,  in  all  his  pride  and  glory,  stood  he  before  the  humbly-clad  Jesus  of 
Nazareth. 

Look!  he  cries,  pointing  with  his  hand  towards  that  sublime  panorama 
of  Empire  crowded  on  Empire,  which  spreads  far  into  the  haze  of  distance, 
from  the  foot  of  this  colossal  cliff;  Look!  All  these  will  1  give  thee,  if 
thou  wilt  fall  down  and  worship  me! 

Jesus  bends  from  that  awful  clift'  and  gazes  in  mute  wonder  upon  that 
scene.  Ah,  who  may  describe  that  spectable,  what  power  of  imagery 
depict  the  majestic  drapery  of  glory  which  floated  around  that  boundless 
view  ? 

There,  rising  into  golden  sunlight,  were  cities,  glittering  with  innumera-  \ 
ble  spires,  grand  with  swelling  domes,  rank  after  rank,  they  grew  into  space, 
and  shone  with  the  glory  of  all  ages.  Yes,  the  glory  of  the  past,  the  glory 
of  the  present,  the  glory  of  the  future  were  there  !  Nineveh  of  old,  rising 
from  a  boundless  plain,  scattered  with  palms,  her  giant  walls  looming  in 
the  light,  her  solitary  temple  towering  over  her  wilderness  of  domes- 
Nineveh  was  there  !  And  there  the  Romes  of  all  ages  swelling  in  con 
trasted  glory.  Imperial  Rome — behold  her  !  Magnificent  with  colosseum 
and  theatre,  her  streets  crowded  with  the  victorious  legions,  her  white  tem 
ples  encircled  by  the  smoke  of  incense,  her  unconquered  banner  S.  P.  Q.  R. 
floating  over  the  heads  of  kneeling  millions — Imperial  Rome,  clad  in  the 
drapery  of  the  Caesars,  was  there. 

By  her  side  arose  another  Rome  ;  the  Papal  Rome  of  after  years,  with 
her  immense  cathedral  breaking  into  space,  over  the  ruins  of  the  ancient 
city,  while  solemn  Pontiffs,  carried  in  gorgeous  canopies,  on  the  shoulders 
of  liveried  guards,  through  the  long  files  of  kneeling  worshippers,  pointed  to 
the  Cross,  the  Image  and  the  Sword,  and  waved  their  heavy  robes,  rich 
with  lace  and  gold  and  jewels,  as  they  swelled  the  anthem  to  the  praise  of 
Rome,  Papal  Rome,  the  mistress  of  the  souls  of  men  ! 

Jesus  beheld  it  all. 

Renounce  thy  mission,  forsake  the  Voice  which  now  calls  thee  forth,  t* 


412  THE   FOURTH    OF   JULY.   177b. 

serve  this  creature  Man,  who  will  afterwards  trample  on  thee,  and  lo . 
Behold  thy  reward — all  these,  and  more  than  these  will  1  give  thee,  if 
thou  wilt  fall  down  and  worship  me  ! 

Then  from  the  unbounded  field  of  space,  high  over  Rome  the  Imperial, 
Rome  the  Papal,  high  over  Babylon  the  great,  yes,  above  gorgeous  empires, 
whose  names  have  been  lost  in  the  abyss  of  ages,  there  rose  another  Empire, 
terrible  to  behold  in  her  bloody  beauty. 

She  rose  there,  towering  into  light ;  an  immense  sea  seemed  to  shut  her 
cities  in  its  girdle  of  blood-red  waves. 

The  white  sails  of  her  ships  were  on  that  sea,  the  tread  of  armed  war 
riors,  crowding  in  millions,  was  heard  in  her  palace  gates,  along  her  marts 
of  commerce,  nay,  in  her  temples  of  religion  !  She  had  grown  strong  with 
the  might  of  ages.  Mightier  than  Imperial  Rome,  her  dominion  ended  only 
with  the  setting  sun,  her  banners  were  fanned  by  every  breeze  that  swept 
the  earth,  the  ice-wind  of  the  north,  the  hot  blast  of  the  tropics,  the  summer 
gales  of  more  lovely  climes. 

She  was  terrible  to  behold  that  unknown  empire,  for  her  temples  were 
built  upon  the  skulls  of  millions,  her  power  was  fed  on  human  flesh,  her 
Red  Cross  Flag  was  painted  with  the  blood  of  martyrs,  moistened  with  the 
tears  of  the  widow,  fanned  by  the  sighs  of  the  orphan ! 

4  Dismal  in  her  lurid  grandeur,  she  towered  there,  above  all  other  nations, 
claiming  their  reverence,  nay,  her  loftiest  dome  pierced  the  sky,  blazing 
with  texts  from  the  Book  of  God,  as  though  she  would  excuse  her  crimes  in 
the  face  of  Divinity  himself,  glossing  Murder  over,  with  a  soft  word,  and 
sanctifying  Blasphemy  with  a  prayer  ! 

O,  it  was  a  terrible  picture,  drawn  by  the  hand  of  Satan,  there  on  the 
golden  haze  of  infinite  space. 

These,  these  will  1  give  thee,  if  thou  wilt  fall  down  and  worship  me! 
Only  renounce  the  Voice  which  calls  thee  forth  to  the  relief  of  suffering 
Man,  only  forsake  this  dream  of  Good — a  beautiful  Dream  it  may  be, yet 
still  only  a  dream — which  tells  thee  that  thou  canst  lift  up  the  toiling 
Millions  of  the  human  race,  and  the  glory  of  all  ages,  the  grandeur  of  all 
empires  shall  be  thine! 

As  the  Tempter  speaks  in  that  soft  persuasive  voice,  fluttering  his  jew 
elled  robes  as  he  prayed  this  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  clad  in  his  humble  garb,  to 
descend  into  the  herd  of  Conquerors  and  Kings,  to  become  like  them  a 
drinker  of  human  blood,  a  butcher  of  human  hearts,  let  us  look  upon  the 
face  of  the  TEMPTED  ONE. 

Lo!  At  that  moment,  as  if  the  light  of  God's  presence  shone  more 
serenely  in  his  soul,  this  Man  of  Nazareth  stands  there,  with  a  lofty  scorn 
opon  his  brow,  an  immortal  glory  in  his  eyes. 

Solemnly  he  lifts  his  hand,  his  voice  swells  on  the  air : 

Get  thee  hence  Satan,  he  exclaims  in  that  voice  of  deep-toned  music. 


THE   WILDERNESS.  4)3 

now  terrible  in  its  accent  of  reproof,  For  it  is  written  thou  shalt  WORSHIP 
JEHOVAH  THY  GOD,  AND  HIM  ONLY  SHALT  THOU  SERVE  ! 

It  is  written  not  only  in  the  Page  of  Revelation,  but  here  upon  the  heart, 
thou  shalt  not  worship  Gold  nor  Superstition,  nor  tinselled  Hypocrisy  ; 
thou  shalt  not  bow  down  to  Pomp,  whose  robes  are  stained  in  blood,  nor 
reverence  Power,  whose  throne  is  built  on  skulls,  but  thou  shalt  worship 
Jehovah  the  Father.  (To  do  good  to  Man  is  to  worship  God. 

Ah — blasted  on  the  brow,  trembling  in  each  limb,  the  abashed  DEVIL — 
attired  as  he  is,  in  all  the  pomp  of  the  world — crawls  from  the  presence  of 
that  humbly  clad  Jesus  of  Nazareth. 

My  friends  shall  we  leave  this  beautiful  passage  in  the  life  of  Jesus,  with 
out  listening  to  its  moral,  without  taking  to  our  hearts  the  great  truth  which 
it  teaches  ? 

To  you,  O,  Man  of  Genius,  to  you,  O,  Student,  to  you  O,  Seeker  after 
the  Beautiful,  it  speaks  in  a  voice  of  strange,  solemn  emphasis  : 

There  will  come  a  time  in  your  life,  when  like  Jesus,  you  will  be  led  up 
from  the  wilderness  of  neglect  and  want,  by  the  Prince  of  this  world,  into 
the  eminence  of  Trial.  You  will  have  the  good  things  of  this  world  spread 
out  before  you,  you  will  hear  the  voice  of  the  Tempter  : 

Crush  the  voice  that  is  now  speaking  to  your  soul — that  voice  which 
bids  you  go  out  and  speak  boldly  and  act  bravely  for  the  rights  of  man 
—drown  every  honest  thought— trample  on  every  high  aspiration,  and 
Lo !  These  shall  be  thine!  The  praise  of  men,  the  Jlattery  of  syco 
phants,  the  pleasure  of  rich  men's  feasts  and  the  hum  of  mob  applause ! 
These  shall  be  thine,  if  thou  wilt  fall  down  and  ivorship  me  ! 

Does  he  not  speak  thus  to  you,  O,  Student,  this  purple-robed  tempter, 
with  his  soft  persuasive  voice  ? 

Do  you  tell  him,  in  tones  of  scorn,  like  your  Jesus  before  you  :  Get  thee 
hence!  1  will  obey  the  voice  ivhich  impels  me  to  speak  out  for  Man — 7 
will  go  on  my  dread  way,  my  only  object  the  ffreffare  of  the  Millions  !  1 
w'M  worship  the  Lord  Jehovah  ! 

Then  the  Prince  of  this  World,  tells  you  with  a  sneer — Go  on!  Go  on 
with  your  imaginary  schemes  for  the  good  of  man,  and  yonder  in  the 
distance  the  Cross  awaits  you  !  Go  on  !  and  behold  your  reward  for  this 
honesty  of  purpose,  as  you  call  it !  You  will  be  despised  in  the  syna 
gogue,  stoned  in  the  mart,  spit  upon  in  the  halls  of  the  great,  crucified  to 
public  scorn,  as  a  robber  and  a  murderer  ! 

So  spake  the  Tempter  to  the  Man  of  the  Revolution,  the  signers  of  the 
Declaration.  Is  it  not  true  ? 

Does  not  the  Tempter  in  this  our  day,  appeal  to  the  most  bestial  emotion 
of  the  human  heart — FEAR  ? 

Yes,  the  truth  must  be  told,  it  was  the  curse  of  public  opinion  in  the  day 
of '76. — as  it  is  now — that  shivering  dread  of  the  pompous  Name,  or  the 
infallible  Synagogue — in  press  and  church  and  home — alike  it  rules— thai 


414  THE   FOURTH    OF   JULY.  1776. 

crawling  obeisance  to  creed  and  council,  best  syllabled  in  one   emphati 
word — ««  FEAR." 

Let  but  the  Reformer  of  our  time,  who  feels  that  God  has  given  him 
powers  for  the  good  of  his  brethren,  dare  to  be  honest,  dare  to  speak  out 
boldly  in  his  own  way,  against  hideous  evils,  which  glared  in  his  face — 
Behold  his  reward !  Scorn,  hissed  from  serpent-tongues,  malice  howled 
from  slanderous  throats,  the  portentous  bray  of  a  Public  Opinion,  made  up 
by  men  whose  character  and  name,  would  not  stand  in  the  light  of  a  farth 
ing  candle. 

Does  the  Author  in  the  pages  of  a  book,  dare  to  picture  the  character  of 
some  lecherous  Pharisee,  who  has  crawled  up  into  a  pulpit,  clothing  his 
deformities  with  sacerdotal  robes  ?  Behold — every  lecherous  Pharisee  who 
may  possess  a  pulpit,  or  mouth  the  holy  name  of  Jesus  for  his  thousand 
per  year,  assails  that  Reformer  from  his  cowardly  eminence,  excommuni 
cates  him  from  the  synagogue,  with  bell,  book,  and  candle,  and  more  terrible 
than  all,  stamps  on  his  brow,  the  portentous  word — INFIDEL  ! 

Or  does  that  Author  with  the  honest  impulse  of  a  full  heart,  dare  to  drag 
up  from  the  obscurity  of  undeserved  scorn,  some  great  name  of  the  Past, 
and  render  justice  to  martyred  intellect,  which  in  days  by-gone,  shone  into 
the  hearts  of  millions  with  holy  and  refreshing  light,  then  the  vengeance  of 
these  worshippers  of  th<*  Prince  of  the  World,  knows  no  bounds.  The 
Pharisaical  pulpit,  the  obscene  Press,  work  hand  in  hand  to  accomplish 
that  young  man's  ruin.  No  lie  is  too  base,  no  slander  too  gross,  no  epithet 
too  malignant  for  the  purpose  of  these  atoms  of  an  hour.  If  they  cannot 
charge  the  patriot  with  Crime,  they  charge  him  with  Poverty.  If  they  can 
not  say  that  he  is  an  Adulterer  in  holy  robes,  or  a  Scurvy  Politician,  feed 
ing  on  the  drippings  of  office,  or  a  Forger  clothing  himself  with  the  fruits 
of  fraud,  they  wreak  their  vengeance  in  one  word,  and  say,  as  their  proto 
types  of  old  said  of  the  Lord  Jesus  ;  HE  is  POOR  ! 

Thus  in  the  Revolution,  spoke  the  liveried  and  gowned  pensioners  of 
King  George,  against  the  Signers  and  their  partners  in  the  work  of  freedom. 
The  British  pulpit,  and  the  British  Press,  joined  their  voices  and  spoke  of 
the  "  Infidel  Jefferson"  who  denied  the  divine  right  of  Kings  ;  the  "  Traitor 
Washington"  who  at  the  head  of  his  "  Ragmuffin  Mob"  in  poverty  and 
rebellion,  held  the  huts  of  Valley  Forge. 

Far  be  it  from  me,  my  friends,  to  say  one  word  against  that  pure  Minister 
of  the  Gospel,  who  follows  reverently  in  the  footsteps  of  his  Lord.  Far  be 
it  from  me  to  whisper  i  breath  against  that  high-souled  Editor,  who  never 
prostitutes  his  press  to  ihe  appetites  of  the  malignant  and  obscene.  Such  a 
Minister,  such  an  Editor  I  hold  in  reverence  ;  they  are  worthy  of  our 
respect  and  honor. 

Yet  we  cannot  disguise  the  fact,  that  there  exists  now  as  in  the 
time  of  the  Revolution,  a  band  of  creatures  calling  themselves  Ministers,  a 
Congregation  of  reptiles  who  assume  the  position  of  Directors  of  Puohc 


THE    WILDERNESS.  41*> 

Opinion,  while  in  their  microscopic  souls  they  have  no  more  sense  of  a  pure 
Religion,  than  the  poor  wretch  who  sold  his  Master,  for  thirty  pieces  of  silver. 

Who  made  these  fellows  Ministers  of  Almighty  God  ?  Who  clothed 
them  with  all  the  solemn  gravity  of  the  portentous  nod,  the  white  cravat, 
and  the  nasal  twang  ?  Who  lifted  them  from  their  obscurity  into  Priests 
of  the  Altar,  qualified  to  minister  the  holy  rites  of  the  sacrament,  admonish 
the  living,  bury  the  dead  ?  Who  ! 

We  do  not  wish  to  investigate  their  title,  for  our  search  might  end  on  the 
same  rock  where  the  Prince  of  this  World  tempted  the  Lord  Jesus. 

Then  my  friends,  there  is  species  of  the  genus  reptile,  calling  himself 
an  Editor,  who  merits  a  passing  word.  The  servile  tool  of  some  corrupt 
politician,  paid  to  libel  at  so  much  per  line,  he  is  always  the  first  to  fear  the 
cause  of  Religion.  Reeking  with  the  foul  atmosphere  of  the  brothel,  he  is 
the  first  to  shudder  for  the  danger  of  public  morals.  Fresh  from  the  boon 
companionship  of  "  lewd  fellows  of  the  baser  sort,"  he  is  a  virulent  moral 
lecturer  Were  this  creature  alone  in  his  work  of  infamy,  not  much  feai 
need  be  taken  on  his  account.  Like  the  rattlesnake  he  can  but  leap  hi? 
own  slimy  length.  Yet  a  hundred  reptiles  together,  hissing  and  stinging  in 
chorus  may  appal  the  stoutest  heart,  so  does  this  Reptile  Editor  join  himself 
to  other  reptiles,  and  form  an  association  of  venom  which  poisons  the  life- 
springs  of  many  a  noble  soul,  and  distils  its  saliva  even  in  the  fountains  of 
home.  This  viper  of  the  Press  is  not  peculiar  to  our  day — he  hissed  and 
stung,  in  the  time  when  our  freedom  was  but  dawning  from  the  long  night 
of  ages.  The  Tory  Press  of  the  Revolution,  from  Rivington  of  the  New 
York  Royal  Gazette,  down  to  his  less  notorious  compeers  of  the  Philadel 
phia  loyalist  Press,  in  their  malignant  attacks  upon  Washington,  did  not 
even  spare  his  private  life.  Forged  letters  were  published  day  after  day, 
in  their  papers,  signed  with  the  name  of  Washington,  in  which  the  very 
heart-strings  of  the  chieftain  were  torn,  by  the  leprous  hand  of  Editorial 
pestilence  !  The  Father  of  his  Country  avoided  these  things,  the  Reptile 
Editor  and  the  Reptile  Preacher,  as  he  would  have  shunned  a  rabid  dog. 
He  turned  their  path,  as  you  would  from  the  path  of  a  viper.  Had  the 
generous  indignation  of  his  soul  found  vent  in  words,  he  might  have  said 
like  the  Saviour  to  their  Judean  proto-types — 

"  O  !  Scribes,  Pharisees,  Hypocrites,  how  shall  ye  escLpe  the  damnation 
of  hell  !"  — 

With  the  vengeance,  or  rather  the  venom  of  men  like  these,  Jesus  was 
assailed  in  his  day,  because  he  refused  to  worship  their  master.  So  Wash 
ington  was  assailed  because  he  refused  obedience  to  the  King.  Think  not 
my  friends,  to  escape  the  trial  of  your  Saviour,  if  you  follow  in  his  footsteps. 
Think  not,  be  honest  and  bold  in  your  actions  and  your  words,  without 
feeling  the  fang  of  the  viper  in  your  soul.  But  in  the  darkest  hour  of  your 
life,  when  slander  poisons  your  soul,  and  persecution  blasts  your  fiame.  then 
remember  these  blessed  words  : 


416  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,  1776. 

— Then  the  devil  leaveth  him,  and  behold  !  Angels  came  and  ministered 
unto  him. — 

Yes,  after  hunger  and  thirst  and  temptation,  behold  the  Blessed  Jesus, 
sitting  on  yonder  granite  rock,  while  forms  of  beauty  group  about  him,  their 
beaming  eyes  fixed  upon  his  divine  countenance.  Forms  of  beauty,  yes 
the  most  beautiful  of  forms — all  that  is  pure  in  woman,  lovely  in  the  bloom 
of  her  face,  beaming  in  the  glance  of  her  eye,  rounded  and  flowing  in  the 
outlines  of  her  shape, — bend  there  before  the  Saviour,  in  the  guise  of  Angels  ! 

Lo  !  one  radiant  form  with  floating  tresses  of  golden  hair  brings  the  cup 
of  water ;  another,  with  those  eyes  of  unutterable  beauty  presents  the  wild 
honey-comb,  the  purple  grapes,  the  fragrant  fruit  of  the  fig-tree,  a  third,  gli 
ding  around  him,  with  steps  that  make  no  sound,  soothes  his  brow  with  the 
pressure  of  soft,  white  hands. 
- "  Behold,  angels  ministered  unto  Him  !" 

It  is  before  me  now,  that  beautiful  picture,  created  in  the  wild  desert,  with 
the  background  of  the  Dead  Sea ;  Jesus  sitting  calm  and  serene  on  the 
rugged  rock,  while  angel-forms  kneel  at  his  feet,  bend  over  his  shoulders, 
smile  in  his  face,  group  in  shapes  of  matchless  loveliness  around  him. 

Hark,  that  song  ?  was  ever  hymn  so  soft  and  dreamy,  heard  in  this  desert 
wild  before  ?  It  swells  over  the  dark  mass  of  rocks,  it  glides  along  the 
sullen  waters  of  the  lake,  it  bursts  up  to  the  morning  sky  in  one  choral 
murmur  of  praise. 

Angels  cheer  the  Lord  Jesus  with  their  hymns. 

So,  O,  man  of  genius,  O,  Student,  O,  Seeker  after  the  beautiful,  shall 
angels  cheer  thee,  and  bless  thee,  and  sing  to  thee ;  after  thou  hast  passed 
the  fiery  ordeal  of  hunger,  thirst,  neglect  and  temptation.  From  the  book 
of  God,  Jesus  speaks  to  thee,  and  his  word  is  given  ;  it  shall  be. — Behold 
Washington  and  Jefferson,  with  all  the  heroes  and  signers,  rise  triumphant 
through  all  time,  over  the  Tempter  and  Pharisees  of  the  Revolution  ! 

VI.-" THE  OUTCAST." 

WE  will  now  behold  another  scene  in  the  Divine  Master's  life.  To  the 
very  rock  of  Nazareth,  we  will  trace  the  truths  of  the  immortal  Declaration. 

The  scene  changes  yet  once  more.  We  are  in  Nazareth,  that  city  built 
on  a  cliff,  with  the  white  walls  of  its  synagogue  arising  in  the  calm  blue 
sky,  above  the  mansions  of  the  rich,  the  cottages  of  the  poor.  Let  us  still 
our  hearts  with  awe,  let  us  hush  our  breath  with  deep  reverence,  for  it  is  the 
SABBATH,  and  we  are  in  the  SYNAGOGUE. 

Yonder  from  the  dome  overhead,  a  dim,  solemn  light  steals  round  the 
place,  while  a  sacred  silence  pervades  the  air. 

Four  pillars  support  that  dome,  four  pillars  inscribed  with  burning  words 
from  the  book  ot  God. 

In  the  centre  of  the  place  behold  the  ark,  in  which  is  placed  the  holy 
icroll  of  the  law.  Beside  the  ark  a  small  desk  arises  where  the  reader  of 


"THE    OUTCAST."  417 

the  Synagogue  may  stand  and  utter  the  Sabbath  prayers.      Around  this  ark 
and  desk,  from  the  liaht  of  the  dome  to  the  darker  corners  ol  the  place 

o  r 

throng  the  people  of  Nazareth  sitting  on  benches  which  encircle  the  centre 
of  the  temple.     Yonder,  behind  the  ark  and  desk,  on  loftier  benches  are 
the   elders,  their  white   beards   trailing  on  each    breast,  the  flowing  robes 
wound  about  each  portly  form,  the  broad  phylactery  on  each  wrinkled  brow 
These  are  the  rich  men  that  rule  the  synagogue. 

In  the  dark  corners,  you  see  the  gaunt  faces,  the  ragged  forms  of  the  poor, 
who  have  skulked  into  the  temple,  ashamed  of  their  poverty,  yet  eager  to 
hear  the  word  of  the  Lord.  Around  the  altar  are  seated  all  classes  of  life, 
the  merchant  with  his  calculating  face,  the  mechanic  with  his  toil-worn 
hands,  the  laborer  with  his  sunburnt  visage. 

But  here,  on  the  right  of  the  altar,  amid  that  throng  of  women,  beheld  a 
matron  seated  in  front  of  the  rest,  her  form,  with  its  full  outlines,  indicating 
the  prime  of  womanhood,  just  touched,  not  injured  by  age,  while  her  sereie 
face,  relieved  by  brown  hair,  silvered  with  grey,  is  lighted  by  large  blue 
eyes.  There  are  wrinkles  on  that  brow,  yet  when  you  gaze  in  thoue  eir- 
nest  eyes,  you  forget  them  all. 

This  is  MARY  the  mother  of  Jesus.  The  sunbeam  stealing  from  yonc«er 
dome,  light  up  her  serene  face,  and  reveals  that  smile,  so  soft,  and  sad,  and 
tender. 

Her  son  is  to  preach  to  day  in  the  Synagogue  ;  his  fame  is  beginning  to 
stir  the  world.  The  mother  awaits  his  appearance  with  a  quiet  joy,  while 
yonder,  in  that  toil-wrung  man  with  the  grey  hair  and  sunburnt  face,  who 
leans  upon  his  staff  with  clasped  hands,  you  behold  Joseph  the  Carpenter. 

A  deep  silence  pervails  in  the  temple. 

Yonder,  in  front  of  the  elders  is  seated  the  Minister  (or  Reader)  of  the 
Synagogue,  venerable  in  his  beard,  broad  in  his  phylactery,  with  the  scroll 
of  the  law  in  his  hand.  He  has  just  finished  the  prayers  of  the  Sabbath  ; 
and  all  is  silent  expectation.  They  wait  for  the  appearance  of  this  Jesus, 
who  the  other  day,  was  toiling  with  his  father,  at  the  carpenter's  bench. 
Now,  it  is  said  he  has  become  an  eloquent  Preacher ;  his  name  is  bruited 
on  every  wind  ;  it  is  even  said  that  he  worked  miracles  yonder  in  Galilee. 
f/e,  Jesus,  the  carpenter's  son  ! 

A  murmur  deepens  through  the  synagogue.  Eyes  are  cast  toward  the 
door ;  faces  turned  over  the  shoulder ;  whispers  resound  on  every  side. 
The  mother  yonder  rises  from  her  seat ;  how  her  blue  eye  fires  !  The 
father  lifts  his  head  from  his  staff;  a  flush  warms  his  wrinkled  brow. 

He  comes  !  Yes,  his  rude  garments,  travel-worn,  his  long  hair  floating 
to  his  shoulders,  embrowned  by  the  roadside  dust,  he  comes,  the  object  of 
every  eye,  walking  through  the  agitated  crowd  towards  the  altar. 

The  poor,  yes  the  ragged,  loil-trodden  poor,  bend  over  the  shoulders  of 
the  rich,  eager  to  catch  the  gleam  of  those  mild  deep  eyes,  the  silent  elo 
quence  of  that  white  brow,  the  love  of  those  smiling  lips.  For  it  is  said, 


418  THE    FOURTH    OF   JULY,  1776. 

ttiis  Jesus  has  dared  to   espouse  the  cause  of  the   poor,  even   against   the 
V      pomp  of  broad  phylacteries  and  venerable  beards.     So  the  rumor  runs. 

Jesus  advances  ;  one  glance  to  that  Dear  Mother,  and  their  eyes  kindle 
in  the  same  blaze,  one  reverent  inclination  to  that  Father,  and  he  passes  into 
the  desk. 

Every  eye  beholds  him  ! 

Do  you  not  see  him  also,  standing  calm  and  erect,  as  his  large  earnest 
eyes  slowly  pass  from  face  to  face,  while  his  countenance  already  glows 
with  inward  emotion  ?     He  is  there  before  me,  one  hand  laid  upon  the  un 
opened  scroll,  while  the  other  rises  in  an  earnest  gesture. 

The  silence  grows  deeper. 

He  opens  the  scroll ;  it  is  the  book  of  the  Prophet  Isaiah,  that  Poet  and 
Seer,  whose  burning  words  are  worth  all  your  Virgils  and  Homers,  were 
their  beauties  multiplied  by  thousands. 

Hark,  that  voice,  how  it  rings  through  the  temple : 

•'  The  Spirit  of  Jehovah  is  upon  meT  he  exclaims,  as  he  stands  there, 
glowing  with  Divinity ;  He  hath  anointed  me  to  preach  good  tidings  to 
the  Poor  r 

A  deep  murmur  fills  the  synagogue.  The  Elders  bend  forward  in 
wonder,  the  Poor  start  up  from  their  dark  corners  with  a  silent  rapture. 
Mary  clasps  her  hands  and  looks  into  the  face  of  her  Son.  Still  that  bold, 
earnest  voice  rings  on  the  Sabbath  air. 

"  HE  hath  sent  me  to  heal  the  broken-hearted,  to  preach  deliverance  to 
the  captive,  sight  to  the  blind,  liberty  to  them  that  are  bruised  / — " 

Then  while  the  murmur  deepens,  while  the  Elders  start  from  their  seats, 
and  the  Poor  come  hurrying  forward,  do  you  see  that  frame  dilate,  that  eye 
burn,  as  his  voice  swells  again  through  the  temple, 

"  To  preach  the  acceptable  Year  of  the  Lord. " 

Yes,  freedom  to  the  slave,  hope  to  the  Poor,  the  Great  Millenium  of  God 
— when  Beauty  shall  dwell  on  earth  forever — to  all  the  Sons  of  Men  ! 

Then  while  wonder  and  indignation  and  rapture  and  scorn  thrill  round 
the  temple,  this  Jesus  closes  the  book  and  from  that  desk,  proclaims  him 
self  the  ANOINTED  ONE  of  God,  the  Redeemer  of  the  Poor ! 

Ah(  what  eloquence,  what  soul,  what  fire  !  How  he  pictures  the  degra 
dation  of  Man,  now  crouching  under  the  foot  of  Priest  and  King,  how  he 
thunders  indignant  scorn  into  the  face  of  Pharisee  and  scribe,  how,  stretching 
forth  his  arms,  while  his  chest  heaves  and  his  eye  burns,  he  proclaims  the 
coming  of  that  blessed  day,  when  Man  shall  indeed  be  free ! 

He  stood  there,  not  like  an  humble  pleader  for  the  right,  but  with  the 
tone  and  look  and  gesture  of  Divinity,  who  exclaims,  Let  there  be  light  and 
light  there  was  ! 

Yet  look  !  Those  bearded  men  with  broad  phylacteries,  have  started 
from  their  seats  ;  they  encircle  him  with  flushed  faces  and  eyes  gleaming 
scorn. 


"THE    OUTCAST."  419 

f  see  the  most  reverend  of  them  all,  stand  there,  with  the  sneer  deepen 
ing  over  his  face,  while  his  straightened  finger  points  to  the  face  of  Jesus— 
LOOK!  he  cried,  turning  to  his  brethren,  h  not  this  Joseph  the  Carpen 
ter's  son  ? 

Is  not  this  the  man  of  toil,  who,  the  other  day  was  working  at  a  rude 
bench  ?  Behold  his  mother — a  poor  woman  !  Behold  his  father — a  car 
penter  ?  Does  he  come  to  teach  us,  the  Elders  of  the  synagogue,  broad  in 
our  phylacteries,  flowing  in  our  robes,  voluminous  in  our  prayers  ? 

But  the  Poor  press  forward  too,  and  one  rude  son  of  toil  kneels  there 
before  him,  pressing  the  hem  of  his  gaberdine,  while  his  eyes  are  lifted  to 
his  face.  Mary — ah,  let  us  pity  the  poor  Mother  now  ! — for  starting  to  her 
feet,  she  clasps  her  hands,  while  her  lips  part  and  her  eye  dilates  as  she 
awaits  the  end. 

Joseph  has  buried  his  head  upon  his  bosom. 

Jesus  rises  supreme  above  them  all.  Yes,  unawed  by  the  scowling 
brows,  unmoved  by  the  words  of  scorn,  he  spreads  forth  his  arms,  his 
voice  rings  on  the  air  once  more  ! 

— "  Jl  Prophet  is  not  without  honor  save  in  his  own  country  and  his  own 
house! — " 

These  words  have  scarce  passed  his  lips,  when  the  uproar  deepens  int« 
violence. 

Forth  with  him  !  the  cry  yells  through  the  synagogue,  Forth  with  him 
blasphemer  !  Forth  with  him  from  the  synagogue  and  the  city  !  To  the 
rock,  to  the  rock  with  the  INFIDEL  ! 

With  one  accord  they  hurl  him  from  the  desk,  they,  the  venerable  elders, 
with  the  broad  phylacteries.  Rude  hands  grasp  him,  demoniac  voices  yell 
in  his  ear.  At  this  moment,  even  as  they  drag  him  from  the  desk,  a  little 
child,  with  flowing  hair  and  dilating  eyes,  affrighted  by  the  clamor,  steals 
up  to  Jesus,  seizing  his  robe  with  its  tiny  hands.  His  face,  alone  calm  and 
smiling  in  the  uproar,  seems  to  promise  shelter  to  the  startle  child. 

Through  the  passage  of  the  synagogue  they  drag  him,  and  now  he  is  in 
the  open  air,  with  the  Sabbath  sun  pouring  upon  his  uncovered  brow.  Along 
the  streets,  from  the  city,  over  the  flinty  stones — to  the  rock  with  the 
blasphemer  ! 

The  city  is  built  upon  a  rock,  which  yawns  over  an  abyss.  Plunged 
from  this  rock,  dashed  into  atoms  on  the  stones  below,  this  blasphemer  shall 
blaspheme  no  more  ! 

AIL  the  while,  poor  Mary,  weeping,  trembling,  clasping  her  hands  in  an 
guish,  follows  the  crowd,  imploring  mercy  for  her  son.  Do  you  see  the 
tinger  of  scorn  pointed  at  her  face,  the  brutal  sneer  levelled  at  her  heart  ? 

Joseph  humbled  and  abashed,  has  gone  quietly  away,  perhaps  to  his  car 
penter  shop,  to  weep  that  this  bold  Jesus  ever  dared  to  beard  the  Srnago^ue. 

Out  from  the  city  with  shouts  and  yells  and  curses  !  Out  along  the 
flinty  path — behold  the  crowd  attains  the  rock. 


420  THE    FOURTH   OF   JULY,  1776. 

Surrounded  by  these  forms,  trembling  with  passion,  these  faces  scowling 
with  rage,  Jesus  looks  calmly  over  the  abyss,  while  a  rough  hand  pinions 
each  arm.  It  is  an  awful  sight,  that  steep  wall  of  rock,  rising  from  the 
ravine  below.  Even  the  elders,  who  hold  this  Carpenter's  son  on  the  verge 
of  the  rock,  start  back  affrighted.  The  dizzy  heighth  appals  their  souls. 

The  shouts,  cries,  curses,  deepen.  Man  never  looks  so  much  like  a 
brute,  as  when  engaged  in  an  act  of  violence,  but  when  this  act  is  mob  vio 
lence,  where  many  join  to  crush  a  solitary  victim,  then  man  looks  like  a 
brute  and  devil  combined. 

There  is  not  one  face  of  pity  in  that  frenzied  crowd.  From  afar  some 
few  poor  men,  slaves  of  the  rich  and  afraid  to  brook  their  anger,  gaze  upon 
the  crowd  with  looks  of  sympathy  for  Jesus  stamped  upon  their  rude  faces. 

Mary  too,  do  you  not  see  her  kneeling  there,  some  few  paces  from  tfce 
crowd,  her  hands  uplifted,  while  her  brown  hair,  slightly  touched  with  grey, 
floats  wildly  to  the  breeze.  She  has  sunken  down,  exhausted  by  the  con 
flict  of  emotions,  even  yet  she  shrieks  for  mercy,  mercy  for  this  Jesus, 
her  Son  ! 

Jesus  looks  over  the  dizzy  rock. 

Nearer  they  urge  him  to  its  verge,  nearer  and  nearer ;  ah — he  is  on  the 
edge — another  inch  and  he  is  gone — hark  !  his  foot  brushes  the  earth  from 
the  brink  ;  you  hear  it  crumbling  as  he  stands  there,  looking  into  the  abyss, 

At  this  moment,  pinioned  by  rude  arms,  he  turns  his  face  over  his  shoul 
der  ;  he  gazes  upon  that  crowd. 

O,  the  immortal  scorn,  the  withering  pity  of  that  gaze  !  His  brow  glows, 
his  eyes  fire,  his  lips  wreathe  in  a  calm  smile. 

As  one  man  the  crowd  shrink  back,  they  cannot  face  the  lustre  of  those 
eyes.  Behold — the  Pharisees  who  grasp  the  arm  of  Jesus,  fall  on  their 
knees  with  their  faces  to  the  flint.  That  radiant  brow  strikes  terror  to  their 
souls. 

In  a  moment  he  is  free,  free  upon  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  the  glory  of  Di 
vinity  radiating  in  flashes  of  light  around  that  white  brow,  while  the  rough 
*     carpenter's  robes  seem  to  change  into  new  garments,  flowing  as  the  morning 
mist,  luminous  as  sunshine.     Even  his  long  hair,  falling  to  his  shoulders, 
seems  to  wave  in  flakes  of  light. 

Give  way  ye  Pharisees,  give  way  ye  bearded  Elders,  give  way  ye  makers 
of  long  prayers,  with  your  flowing  robes  and  broad  phylacteries,  for  Jesus 
the  Carpenter's  son  would  pass  through  your  midst ! 

And  he  comes  on  from  the  verge  of  the  cliff",  even  through  their  midst. 
Jesus  comes  in  silent  grandeur. 

Where  are  these  men  who  shouted  Infidel — Dog — Blasphemer — a  mo 
ment  ago  ?  Crouching  on  the  earth,  their  faces  to  the  flint,  their  flowing 
*obes  thrown  over  their  heads,  there  they  are,  these  solemn  men,  with  vene 
rable  beards  and  broad  phylacteries. 

Je«us  passes  on. 


"THE    OUTCAST."  421 

Silently,  his  beautiful  countenance  beaming  with  immortal  love,  his  arms 
folded  on  his  breast,  he  passes  on. 

Yes,  it  is  written  in  the  book  of  God  ;  "  He  passing  from  the  midst  of 
them,  went  his  way" 

He  is  gjne  from  their  city.  They  raise  their  affrighted  faces,  while 
malice  rankles  in  their  hearts,  and  follow  his  form  with  flashing  eyes. 

Mary  gazes  upon  him,  also,  weeping  bitterly  for  JESUS,  HER  OUTCAST  SON, 
now  a  wanderer  and  exile  from  the  home  of  his  childhood. 

Can  you  imagine  a  picture  like  this  ? 

Yonder  on  the  summit  of  a  hill,  the  last  which  commands  a  view  of 
Nazareth,  its  synagogue  and  rock,  just  where  the  roadside  turns  and  follows 
the  windings  of  a  shadowy  valley,  stands  JESUS,  resting  his  clasped  hands 
on  his  staff,  while  his  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  distant  city. 

Who  may  picture  the  untold  bitterness  of  that  gaze  ? 

It  is  home,  the  town  in  which  he  was  reared,  beneath  the  fond  light  of  a 
Mother's  eyes.  There  is  the  carpenter  shop  in  which  he  toiled ;  there  the 
walks  of  his  solitary  hours,  nay,  the  temple  in  which  he  was  wont  to  kn  sel 
in  prayer. 

And  now,  with  scorn  and  curses  and  rude  hands,  they  have  thrust  him 
forth,  AN  OUTCAST  from  his  home. 

It  waTKis  earnest,  yearning  desire  to  do  good  in  that  town ;  to  revrcal 
his  high  mission  there  ;  to  proclaim  the  great  year  of  Jehovah,  to  the  people 
of  his  childhood's  home. 

And  now  he  stands  there,  gazing  upon  the  town,  while  the  mark  of  thoir 
rude  grasp  yet  reddens  on  his  arms,  while  the  words,  Blasphemer,  Infidel, 
Dog,  yet  echo  in  his  ears. 

He  is  an  OUTCAST,  this  JESUS  THE  CARPENTER'S  SON. 

O,  if  there  is  one  drop  in  the  cup  of  persecution  more  bitter  than  another 
it  is  the  galling  thought  of  neglect  and  wrong  which  sinks  into  the  heart  ol 
that  Man,  who  has  been  driven  forth  like  a  venomous  snake,  from  his  child 
hood's  home,  even  in  the  moment  when  his  soul  burned  brightest  with  its 
love  for  God  and  Man  ! 

Welcome  indeed  is  the  grasp  of  a  friend  in  a  foreign  land,  but  dark  and 
terrible  is  the  blow  which  hurls  us  from  the  threshhold  of  our  HOME  ! 

God  in  all  his  dispensations  of  affliction,  with  which  he  visits  us  for  our 
good,  has  no  darker  trial  than  this  ! 

My  friends,  I  confess  from  the  fulness  of  my  heart,  as  I  behold  the 
solemn  lesson  which  this  passage  in  our  Saviour's  life,  has  for  the  man  of 
genius,  the  student,  the  seeker  after  the  beautiful,  I  am  wrapt  in  wonder,  in 
pity,  in  awe,  that  one  man  of  intellect  ever  doubted  the  truth  of  this  Reve- 
ation 


422  THE  FOURTH    OF   JULY,  1770. 

Behold  the  lesson  ! 

Here  on  this  rock  of  the  hill-top,  stands  Jesus  the  Outcast,  gazing  on  hii 
childhood's  home.  Godly  Pharisees  have  thrust  him  forth  ;  sanctimonious 
Elders  have  hissed  the  words.  Infidel,  dog,  blasphemer  in  his  ears  ! 

The  day  will  come,  when  the  beards  and  phylacteries  of  these  men  will 
have  crumbled  in  the  same  forgotten  grave,  where  their  flesh  and  bones  rot 
into  dust.  Their  paltry  town  will  be  the  abiding  place  of  the  Gentile  and 
the  scoffer ;  their  religion  crushed  beneath  the  horse's  hoofs  of  invading 
legions. 

That  town  will  claim  a  name  in  history,  only  because  it  was  once  the 
Home  of  Jesus.  That  religion  be  remembered  only,  because  it  prepared 
the  way  for  the  Religion  of  Jesus.  Yes,  the  name  of  the  Outcast,  who  now 
stands  upon  this  hill,  gazing  upon  the  distant  town,  will  one  day  cover  the 
whole  earth  ;  it  will  throb  inline  heart  of  Universal  Man,  like  the  Presence 
of  a  God  f) 

Who  will  remember  the  Pharisees,  who  record  the  names  of  the  Elders  ? 
Into  what  dim  old  grave  shall  we  look  for  their  dust  ? 

Where  are  the  hands  that  smote  the  Lord  Jesus,  where  the  tongues  that 
hissed  Blasphemer  !  in  his  ears  ? 

Eighteen  centuries  have  passed,  and  the  name  of  this  Jesus where 

does  it  not  shine  ? 

Shouted  on  the  scaffold,  with  the  last  gasp  of  martyrs,  whose  flesh  was 
crumbling  to  cinder,  breathed  by  the  patriot,  dying  on  the  battlefield  for  the 
rights  of  man,  echoed  by  millions  of  worshippers,  who  send  it  up  to  Heaven, 
with  prayer  and  incense,  every  hour  of  the  day,  every  moment  of  the  hour, 
that  NAME  has  dared  the  perils  of  untrodden  deserts,  ascended  hideous 
mountains,  traversed  unknown  seas,  encompassed  the  globe  with  its  glory. 

It  has  done  more  than  all — it  has  survived  the  abuses  with  which  Phari 
sees  and  Hypocrites,  like  their  fathers  of  old,  have  not  hesitated  to  darken 
its  light,  through  the  long  course  of  eighteen  hundred  years. 

Even  the  fang  of  the  Dishonest  Priest  has  failed  to  tear  that  name  from, 
the  heart  of  MAN. 

Even  long  and  bloody  religious  wars,  crowding  the  earth  with  the  bodies 
of  the  dead,  darkening  the  heaven  with  their  blood-red  smoke,  have  not 
effaced  this  name  of  Jesus  ! 

Not  even  the  fires  of  Smithfield,  nor  that  Hell  revealed  on  earth,  the  In 
quisition,  nor  that  cold-blooded  murder,  done  by  a  remorseless  Bigot,  in  the 
open  square  of  Geneva,  the  victim  a  weak  and  unoffending  man,  nor  a 
thousand  such  fires,  inquisitions  and  murders,  all  working  their  barbarities 
in  this  Holy  Name,  have  been  able  to  drag  it  from  the  altar  where  it  shines, 
the  only  hope  of  Man. 

Still  the  Name  of  Jesus  lives ;  who  shall  number  the  hearts  in  which  it 
throbs,  with  every  pulsation  of  love  and  joy  and  hope  ?  Who  shall  number 
the  sands  on  the  shore,  or  count  the  beams  of  the  sun  ? 


THE    HOPE   OF   EIGHTEEN    HUNDRED   YEARS.  42J 

And  when  that  blessed  day  shall  come — and  come  it  will,  as  sur&  at 
Jehovah  lives  ! — When  Kings  and  Priests  shall  be  hurled  from  their  thrones 
of  wrong  and  superstition,  when  Labor  shall  be  no  longer  trodden  down,  by 
the  feet  of  task-masters,  when  every  man  who  toils  shall  receive  his  equal 
portion  of  the  fruits  of  the  earth,  when  a  church  gorgeously  appareled  in 
all  the  splendor  of  lofty  temples,  uncounted  revenues,  hosts  of  pensioned 
ministers  shall  be  demanded  no  more,  when  this  Earth  shall  indeed  be  the 
Garden  of  God,  and  men  indeed  be  Brothers- 
Then  crowning  the  great  work  with  its  awful  and  blessed  benediction, 
one  name  shall  swell  to  the  sky,  echoed  by  the  voices  of  innumerable  Mil 
lions,  the  name  of  Him  whom  Pharisees  and  Elders  thrust  ignominiously 
forth,  from  the  synagogue  of  Nazareth,  the  Friend  of  the  Poor,  the  God  of 
Washington  and  the  signers — the  name  of -JESUS. 

VII.— THE    HOPE    OF    EIGHTEEN    HUNDRED    YEARS. 

Now  let  us  see  how  the  Great  Hope  of  the  Redeemer's  Life  was  fulfilled 
after  the  lapse  of  some  eighteen  hundred  years  ! 

We  will  come  down  to  the  year  1775— we  will  make  a  rapid  journey 
yver  the  earth — 

Saviour  of  the  world  where  are  thy  People,  where  are  the  millions  for 
«f  horn  thou  didst  suffer,  and  bleed,  and  die  ? 

Let  us  look  over  Europe — what  see  we  there  ? 

Magnificent  temples— crowds  of  Priests — rivers  of  blood  ! 

But  thy  millions,  Saviour  of  the  World—where  are  they  ?  The  children 
of  Toil — those  who  wear  the  Mechanic's  garb — those  for  whom  thou 
didst  weep  such  bitter  tears,  in  the  Ages  long  ago — where  are  they  ? 

In  the  deep  mines— in  the  hot  fields—in  the  hotter  workshops— bending 
beneath  heavy  burdens — crouching  beneath  the  lash — these,  these  are  thy 
People,  O  Redeemer  of  the  World  ! 

And  was  it  for  this,  that  the  tears  of  Gethsemane  fell— the  groans  of 
Calvary  arose  ? 

Was  it  to  build  these  temples — to  rear  these  thrones — to  crush  these  toil 
ing  millions  into  dust  ? 

Here,  in  Rome  where  St.  Paul  spoke  forth  words  that  made  Em 
perors  tremble  for  their  thrones— here  you  see  nothing  but  lordly  priests 
walking  on  to  power,  over  a  strange  highway— the  necks  of  a  kneeling  and 
down-trodden  People  ! 

But  this  is  Rome— benighted— Pagan  Rome— let  us  go  to  liberal  en 
tightened,  Protestant  Europe  ! 

Go  to  Germany— go  to  the  scene  of  the  Reformation— what  see  you 
there? 

Why  the  tears  of  persecuted  Innocence  rain  down  upon  the  very  grar* 


424  THE    FOURTH   OF   JULY,  1776. 

ofj\lartin  Luther — yes,  the  sweat,  the  blood  of  the  millions  sink  into  the 
Great  Reformer's  grave,  and  drench  his  bones  ! 

But  ah,  this  is  Germany — doubtless  Protestant  Persecution  rages  here, 
and  dyes  the  land  in  blood — but  still  there  is  a  hope  for  the  human  race ! 

Let  us  pass  by  benighted  France,  with  its  Monarch,  its  Priests,  its  slaves 
— its  throne — its  temples — its  huts  and  its  Bastile — let  us  go  over  the 
channel  to  Christian  England  ! 

Here  Saviour  of  the  world,  here  thy  Religion  has  found  a  home — for  i» 
not  the  broad  Isle  crowded  with  churches — is  there  an  hour  in  the  day  un 
sanctified  by  a  Prayer  ? 

It  is  true,  for  every  church  there  is  a  factory,  a  poor-house,  or  a  jail — it 
is  true  for  every  prayer  that  ascends  to  heaven,  a  miserable  convict  is 
pitched  from  some  gibbet  into  Eternity — it  is  true,  that  if  every  groan 
wrung  from  the  Poor  Man's  heart,  could  harden  into  a  pebble,  then  might 
these  Priests  build  them  a  church,  as  large  as  ten  thousand  St.  Pauls  heaped 
on  each  other — 

But  is  not  this  enlightened,  liberal,  Protestant,  Reformed  England  ! 

Look,  in  yonder  palace  of  Windsor,  sits  a  man  with  a  glassy  unmeaning 
eye — a  drivelling  lip — a  man  buried  in  robes  of  Purple,  a  crown  on  his  re 
ceding  brow,  a  sceptre  in  his  gouty  hand  ! 

And  this  is  Thy  Representative,  O,  Man  of  Nazareth  !  This  is  the 
Head  of  the  Church — Defender  of  the  Faith — this,  this  is  the  British 
Pope! 

Yes,  this  is  the  Defender  of  the  Faith  ! — And  let  us  look  at  this  faith — 
so  kind,  so  merciful,  so  beautiful  ! 

So  anxious  is  Pope  George  to  defend  the  Faith,  that  even  now  he  is 
gathering  Missionaries,  who  will  carry  this  faith  across  three  thousand 
miles  of  ocean  ! 

Go  there  to  the  barracks — the  dockyards — go  there  and  find  his  mission 
aries,  preparing  for  their  high  duties  with  bayonets  in  their  hands  ! 

A  goodly  band  of  Missionaries  !  Look — their  numbers  are  swelled  by 
convicts  from  the  jail — nay  even  the  Murderer  on  the  gibbet  comes  down- 
takes  the  rope  from  his  neck — puts  a  red  coat  on  his  back,  a  musquet  on 
his  shoulder — and  stands  forth — a  Holy  Missionary  of  Pope  George  ! 

And  whom  are  these  Missionaries  to  convert  ? 

Blessed  Redeemer  look  yonder,  far  over  the  waters  !  Look  yonder, 
upon  that  New  World,  where  the  Outcasts  of  the  old  world  have  built  a 
Home,  a  Nation,  a  Religion  !  That  H«me  a  refuge  for  the  oppressed  of 
all  the  earth — that  nation  a  Brotherhood  founded  by  the  Men  of  Plymouth 
rock — by  the  Catholic  of  Baltimore — by  the  Quaker  of  the  Delaware ! 
That  Religion,  Hope  to  Man  !  Hope  to  Toil !  Hope  to  Misery  in  its 
hut— Despair  in  its  cell ! 

And  now  after  this  nation — this  home — this  religon-^— have  built  the  altar 
oMhe  rights  of  man  in  the  wilderness — behold  George  the  Pope  of  Fug 


COUNCIL   OF   FREEMEN.  425 

land  is  sending  his  missionaries  far  over  the  waters  to  the  New  Wond,  to 
butcher  its  men,  to  dishonor  its  women,  to  drench  its  soil  in  blood  ! 

Already  the  brothers  of  these  missionaries  have  begun  their  work — 
already  they  have  endeavored  to  teach  their  mild  persuasive  doctrines  to  the 
people  of  the  new  world — but  these  heathens  reject  the  British  Mission 
aries — yes,  on  Bunker  Hill,  Concord,  Lexington,  the  heathens  of  the  new 
world,  trample  the  flag  of  England  into  dust — and  bury  that  flag  beneath 
the  dead  bodies  of  these  Missionaries  of  the  British  Pope  ! 

And  while  these  new  crowds  of  Missionaries  are  leaving  the  shores  of 
England,  look  yonder  I  pray  you,  and  behold  that  solitary  man,  short  in 
stature,  clad  in  a  plain  brown  coat — see  him  embark  on  shipboard,  behold 
him  leave  the  shores  of  England. 

Do  you  know  that  yonder  solitary  man  in  the  brown  coat,  is  destined 
to  do  more  harm  to  the  British  Pope,  than  centuries  will  repair  ?  Did 
George  of  Hanover  but  know,  what  great  thoughts  are  stirring  in  the 
brain  of  this  little  man,  as  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  receding  ship,  he 
gazes  back  upon  the  white  cliffs  of  Albion — he  would  tear  his  royal  robes 
for  very  spite,  nay  offer  the  little  man  an  earldom,  a  title,  wealth,  baubles, 
power,  rather  than  he  should  depart  from  the  English  shore  with  such  great 
thoughts  working  in  his  great  soul. 

Let  us  follow  this  unknown  man  in  the  brown  coat. 

We  are  in  Philadelphia  in  1775 — it  is  the  time  when  a  body  of  rebels 
who  impudently  style  themselves,  the  "  Continental  Congress,"  hold  their 
sessions,  on  yonder  edifice  somewhat  retired  from  Chesnut  Street,  called 
Carpenter's  Hall. 

You  may  have  seen  this  building  ?  It  still  is  standing  there — yes,  up  a 
dark  alley  in  Ciiesnut  Street,  between  Third  and  Fourth  it  stands,  the  hall  of 
\\nijirst  Continental  Congress,  now  used  as  the  sale  room  of  an  auctioneer  ! 
We  have  a  great  lore  for  antiquities  in  Philadelphia — we  reverence  the 
altars  of  the  past,  for  lest  any  lying  foreigner  should  charge  us  with  the  des- 
cretion  of  holy  places,  we  tear  down  the  old  house  of  William  Penn,  sell 
chairs  and  clocks  and  ponies  in  Carpenter's  Hall,  and  degrade  Independence 
Hall,  that  altar  of  the  world,  into  a  nest  for  squabbling  lawyers  ! 

VIII.— COUNCIL  OF  FREEMEN. 

IT  was  in  the  time  when  a  band  of  rebels  sate  in  Carpenter's  Hall — when 
the  smoke  of  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill,  was  yet  in  the  sky,  and  the  un- 
dried  blood  of  Warren  and  the  martyrs,  was  yet  upon  the  ground — that  a 
scene  of  some  interest  took  place,  in  a  quiet  loom,  in  the  city  of  William 
Penn. 

Look  yonder,  and  behold  that  solitary  lamp,  flinging  its  dim  light  around 
a  neatly  furnished  room. 

Grouped  around  that  table,  the  full  warmth    of  the  light,  pouring  full  in 


426  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,    1776. 

their  faces,  are  bve  persons — a   Boston  Lawyer,  a  Philadelphia  Printer,  a 
Philadelphia  Doctor,  and  a  Virginia  Farmer. 

Come  with  me  there  to  that  lonely  room — let  us  seat  ourselves  there — 
let  us  look  into  the  faces  of  these  men — the  one  with  the  bold  brow  and 
resolute  look,  is  one  John  Adams  from  Boston ;  next  to  him  sits  the  calm- 
faced  Benjamin  Rush — then  you  see  the  marked  face  of  the  Printer,  one 
Benjamin  Franklin,  and  your  eye  rests  upon  a  man,  distinguished  above  all 
others  by  his  height,  the  noble  outlines  of  his  form,  the  calm  dignity  of  his 
forehead,  the  quiet  majesty  of  his  look.  That  man  is  named  Washington 
— one  Mr.  George  Washington,  from  Mount  Vernon. 

These  men  are  all  members  of  the  Rebel  Congress  ;  they  have  met  here 
to  night  to  talk  over  the  affairs  of  their  country.  Their  talk  is  deep-toned 
— cautious — hurried.  Every  man  seems  afraid  to  give  free  utterance  to  the 
thoughts  of  his  bosom. 

They  talk  of  Bunker  Hill — of  Lexington — of  the  blood-thirsty  Britisli 
Ministry — of  the  blood-thirsty  British  King  ! 

Then,  from  the  lips  of  Franklin  comes  the  great  question — Where  is  this 
War  to  end?  Are  we  fighting  only  for  a  change  in  the  British  Ministry, 
or— or — for  the  Independence  of  our  land  ? 

There  is  silence  in  that  room. 

Washington,  Adams,  Rush — all  look  into  each  other's  faces — and  are 
silent ! 

Bound  to  England  by  ties  of  ancestry — language — religion — the  very 
idea  of  separation  from  Her,  seems  a  Blasphemy  ! 

Yes,  with  their  towns  burnt,  their  people  murdered — Bunker  Hill  smoking 
there,  and  Lexington  bleeding  yonder — still,  still,  these  Colonists  cling  to 
the  name  of  England,  still  shudder  at  that  big  word,  that  chokes  their  throats 
to  speak — Independence. 

At  this  moment,  while  all  is  still,  a  visitor  is  announced — look  there  !  As 
that  unknown  man  in  the  brown  coat  enters — is  introduced  by  Franklin — takes 
his  seat  at  the  table — is  informed  of  the  topic  in  discussion — look  there  upon 
his  brow,  his  flashing  eye,  as  in  earnest  words  he  speaks  forth  his  soul ! 

Washington,  Rush,  Franklin,  Adams,  all   are   hushed  into  silence  !     At 

first  the  little  man  in  the  brown  coat  startles horrifies  them  with  his 

political  blasphemy ! 

But  as  he  goes  on,  as  his  broad,  solid  brow  warms  with  fire,  as  his  eye 
flashes  the  full  light  of  a  soul  roused  into  all  its  life,  as  those  deep  earnest 
tones  speak  of  the  Independence  of  America — her  glorious  future — her  des 
tiny,  that  shall  stride  on  over  the  wrecks  of  thrones,  to  the  Universal  Empire 
of  Western  Continent,  then  behold  ! 

They  start  from  around  the  table — they  press  that  stranger  in  the  brown 
coat,  by  the  hand — they  beg  him  for  God's  sake,  to  write  these  words  in  a 
book, — a  book  that  shall  be  read  in  all  the  homes,  thundered  from  all  tli« 
pulpits  of  America  ! 


THE    BATTLE   OF    THE    PEN.  427 

Do  you  see  that  picture,  my  friends  ? 

That  little  man  in  the  brown  coat,  standing  there,  flushed,  trembling  with 
ihe  excitement  of  his  own  thoughts ;  the  splendidly  formed  Virginia 
planter  on  one  side,  grasping  him  by  the  hand  ;  those  great-souled  men 
encircling  him  on  the  other  side,  John  Adams  the  Lawyer,  Benjamin  Rush 
the  Doctor,  Benjamin  Franklin  the  Printer. 

Let  this  scene  pass :  let  us  follow  this  little  man  in  the  brown  coat,  thro* 
the  year  1775. 

The  day  after  this  scene,  that  modest  Virginia  Planter,  George  Washing 
ton,  was  named  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Continental  Armies. 

IX.— THE  BATTLE   OF  THE    PEN. 

AND  on  the  summer  days  of  '75,  that  stranger  in  the  brown  coat,  was 
seen  walking  up  and  down,  in  front  of  the  old  State  House,  his  great  fore 
head  shown  in  full  sunlight,  while  with  hands  placed  behind  his  back,  he 
went  slowly  along  the  pavement. 

Then  that  humble  man  would  stride  to  his  lonely  garret,  seize  the  quill, 
and  scratch  down  the  deep  thoughts  of  his  brain  !  Then  forth  again,  for 
a  walk  in  the  State  House  square — up  and  down  under  these  old  trees,  he 

wanders  all  the  afternoon at  night,  there  is  a  light  burning  in  yonder 

garret  window,  burning  all  night  till  break  of  day  ! 

Let  us  look  in  that  garret  window — what  see  you  there  ? 

A  rude  and  neglected  room — a  little  man  in  a  brown  coat,  sitting  beside 
an  old  table,  with  scattered  sheets  of  paper  all  about  him — the  light  of  an 
unsnuffed  candle  upon  his  brow — that  unfailing  quill  in  his  hand  ! 

Ah,  my  friends,  you  may  |alk  to  me  of  the  sublimity  of  your  battles, 
whose  poetry  is  bones  and  skulls — but  for  me,  there  is  no  battle  so  awfully 
sublime,  as  one  like  this,  now  being  fought  before  our  eyes. 

A  poor,  neglected  Author,  sitting  in  his  garret, — the  world,  poverty,  time, 
and  space,  all  gone  from  him — as  with  a  soul  kindled  into  one  steady  blaze, 
he  piles  that  fast-moving  quill.  That  quill  puts  down  words  on  that  paper, 
words  that  shall  burn  into  the  brains  of  Kings,  like  arrows  winged  with  fire, 
and  pointed  with  vitriol ! 

Go  on  brave  Author,  sitting  in  your  garret  alone,  at  this  dead  hour— go 
on — on  through  the  silent  hours — on,  and  God's  blessings  fall  like  breezes 
of  June  upon  your  damp  brow — on,  and  on,  for  you  are  writing  the  Thoughts 
of  a  Nation  into  Birth  ! 

For  many  days,  in  that  year  '75,  was  that  little  man  in  a  brown  coat, 
seen  walking  up  and  down  the  State  House  square — look  yonder  !  There 
in  yon  garret,  night  after  night,  burns  that  solitary  light — burns  and  burns 
on,  till  the  break  of  day. 

At  last  the  work  is  done  '  At  last  grappling  the  loose  sheets  in  his 
trembling  hands — trembling,  because  feverish  with  the  toil  of  the  brain — 


428  THE    FOURTH    OF   JULY.    1776. 

that  author  goes  forth.  His  book  is  written,  it  must  now  be  printed-— 
scattered  to  the  Homes  of  America  !  But  look  ye  —  not  one  printer  will 
touch  the  book  —  not  a  publisher  but  grows  pale  at  the  sight  of  those  dingy 
pages  !  Because  it  ridicules  the  British  Pope  —  ridicules  the  British  Mon 
archy  —  because  it  speaks  out  in  plain  words,  that  nothing  now  remains  to 
oe  done,  but  to  declare  the  New  World  free  and  Independent  ! 

This  shocks  the  trembling  printers  ;  touch  such  a  mass  of  treasonable 
stuff  —  never  !  But  at  last  a  printer  is  found  —  a  bold  Scotchman,  named 
Robert  Bell  —  he  consents  to  put  these  loose  pages  into  type  —  it  is  done  ; 
and  on  the  first  of  January,  1776,  COMMON  SENSE  burst  on  the  People  of 
the  new  world  !  Bursts  upon  the  hearts  and  homes  of  America,  like  a  light 
from  heaven  !  That  book  is  read  by  the  Mechanic  at  his  bench,  the  Mer 
chant  at  his  desk,  the  Preacher  in  his  pulpit  reads  it,  and  scatters  its  great 
truths  with  the  teachings  of  Revelation  ! 

"  It  burst  from  the  Press  "  —  says  the  great  Doctor  Rush,  —  "  with  an 
effect  which  has  rarely  been  produced  by  types  or  paper,  in  any  age  or 
country  !"  / 

That  book  ofvCpmmpn  Sensie  said  strange  and  wonderful  things:  listen 
to  it  for  a  moment  :  — 

"  But  where,  say  some,  is  the  King  of  America  ?  I'll  tell  you,  friend,  he 
reigns  above,  and  doth  not  make  havoc  of  mankind,  like  the  Royal  Brute  of 
Britain  !  Yet  that  we  may  not  appear  to  be  defective  in  earthly  honors,  let 
a  day  be  solemnly  set  apart  for  proclaiming  the  Charter  ,  let  it  be  brought 
forth,  placed  on  the  divine  law,  the  Word  of  God  ;  let  a  crown  be  placed 
thereon,  by  which  the  world  may  know,  that  so  far  as  we  approve  of  Mon 
archy,  that  in  AMERICA  THE  LAW  is  KING.  For  as  in  absolute  governments 
th.;  king  is  law,  so  in  free  countries  the  Law  ought  to  be  king,  and  there 
DUght  to  be  no  other.  But  lest  any  ill  use  should  afterwards  arise,  let  the 
crown  at  the  conclusion  of  the  ceremony,  be  demolished,  and  scattered 
among  the  People,  whose  RIGHT  IT  is  !" 

Was  not  that  bold  language,  from  a  little  man  in  a  brown  coat,  to  a  great 
King,  sitting  there  in  his  royal  halls,  at  once  the  Tyrant  and  the  Pope  of 


Listen  to  "  COMMON  SENSE"  again  : 

"  A  greater  absurdity  cannot  be  conceived  of,  than  three  millions  of 
people,  running  to  their  sea  coast,  every  time  a  ship  arrives  from  London, 
to  know  what  portion  of  Liberty  they  should  enjoy." 

Or  again  —  here  is  a  paragraph  for  George  of  England  to  give  to  the 
Archbishops  of  Canterbury,  to  be  read  in  all  churches  after  the  customary 
prayers  for  the  Royal  Family  :  — 

"  No  man,"  says  Common  Sense,  "  was  a  warmer  wisher  for  a  recon 
ciliation,  than  myself,  before   the  fated    19th  April,  1775,"  —  the  day  of  the 
Massacre  of  Lexington  —  "  but  the  moment  the  event  of  that  day  was  made 
known,   I   rejected    the   hardened,   sullen-tempered    Pharoah   of  England 


THE   AUTHOR-SOLDIER.  42(.) 

lorever  ;  and  disaain  the  wretch,  that  with  the  pretended  title  of  Father 
of  his  People,  can  unfeelingly  hear  of  their  slaughter,  and  composedly  sleep 
with  their  blood  upon  his  soul." 

Listen  to  the  manner  in  which  this  great  work  concludes  : 

*  *  *  Independence  is  the  only  bond  that  can  tie  us  together.  ***** 
Let  the  names  of  Whig  and  Tory  be  extinct;  and  let  none  other  be  heard 
among  us,  than  those  of  a  good  citizen  ;  an  open  and  resolute  friend  :  and 
a  virtuous  supporter  of  the  rights  of  Mankind,  and  of  the  Free  and  Inde 
pendent  States  of  America. 

Need  I  tell  you,  my  friends,  that  this  work,  displaying  the  most  intimate 
knowledge  of  the  resources  of  America — the  nerve  of  her  men,  the  oak  of 
her  forests,  the  treasures  of  her  mines, — displaying  an  insight  into  the  future 
greatness  of  the  American  Navy,  that  was  akin  to  Prophecy,  need  I  tell 
you,  that  this  work,  cutting  into  small  pieces  the  cobwebs  of  Kingship  and 
Courtiership — the  pitiful  absurdity  of  America  being  for  one  hour  dependent 
upon  Britain — struck  a  light  in  every  American  bosom — was  in  fact  the 
great  cause  and  forerunner  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  ! 

And  is  there  a  heart  here  that  does  not  throb  with  emotion,  at  the 
name  of  the  author  of  that  Declaration,  Thomas  Jefferson,  the  Statesman- 
Hero  ? 

And  do  your  hearts  throb  at  the  mention  of  his  name,  and  yet  refuse  to 
pay  the  tribute  of  justice  to  the  memory  of  his  brother-patriot,  his  forerunner 
in  the  work  of  freedom,  the  Author-Hero  of  the  Revolution — THOMAS 
PAINE  ? 

X.— THE  AUTHOR-SOLDIER. 

Now  let  us  follow  this  man  in  the  brown  coat,  this  Thomas  Paine, 
through  the  scenes  of  the  Revolution. 

In  the  full  prime  of  early  manhood,  he  joins  the  army  of  the  Revolution  ; 
h«  shares  the  crust  and  the  cold,  with  Washington  and  his  men — he  is  with 
those  brave  soldiers  on  the  toilsome  march — with  them  by  the  camp-fire — 
with  them  in  the  hour  of  battle  ! 

And  why  is  he  with  them  ? 

Is  the  day  dark — has  the  battle  been  bloody — do  the  American  soldiers 
despair  ?  Hark  !  That  printing  press  yonder,  that  printing  press  that 
moves  with  the  American  host,  in  all  its  wanderings — is  scattering  pamphlets 
through  the  ranks  of  the  army  ! 

Pamphlets  written  by  the  author-soldier,  Thomas  Paine,  written  some 
times  on  the  head  of  a  drum — or  by  the  midnight  fire,  or  amid  the  corses 
of  the  dead — Pamphlets  that  stamp  great  Hopes  and  greater  Truths  in  Plain 
words,  upon  the  souls  of  the  Continental  Army  ! 

Tell  me,  was  not  that  a  sublime  sight,  to  see  a  man  of  Genius,  who  might 
feave  shone  as  an  Orator,  a  Poet,  a  Novelist,  following  with  untiring  devo 
tion,  the  footsteps  ol  the  Continental  army  ? 


430  THE   FOURTH   OF  JULY,  1776. 

Yes,  in  the  dark  days  of  '76,  when  the  soldiers  of  Washington  tracked 
their  footsteps  on  the  soil  of  Trenton,  in  the  snows  of  Princeton — there, 
first  among  the  heroes  and  patriots,  there,  unflinching  in  the  hour  of  defeat, 
writing  his  "  CRISIS,"  by  the  light  of  the  camp-fire,  was  the  Author-Hero, 
THOMAS  PAINE  ! 

Yes,  look  yonder — behold  the  Crisis  read  by  every  Corporal  in  the  army 
of  Washington,  read  to  the  listening  group  of  soldiers — look  what  joy,  what 
hope,  what  energy,  gleams  over  those  veteran  faces,  as  words  like  these 
break  on  their  ears  : 

**  These  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls  !  The  summer  soldier  anc 
the  sunshine  patriot,  will  in  this  CRISIS,  shrink  from  the  service  of  his  coun 
try  ;  but  he  that  stands  it  NOW,  deserves  the  love  and  thanks  of  man  and 
woman.  Tyranny  like  hell,  is  not  easily  conquered ;  yet  we  have  this 
consolation  with  us,  that  the  harder  the  conflict,  the  more  glorious  the 
triumph  ! — " 

Do  not  words  like  these  stir  up  the  blood  ? 

Yet  can  you  imagine  their  effect,  when  read  to  groups  of  starved  and 
bleeding  soldiers,  by  the  dim  watch-fire,  in  the  cold  air  of  the  winter  dawn  ? 

Such  words  as  these  stirred  up  the  starved  Continentals  to  the  attack  on 
Trenton,  and  there,  in  the  dawn  of  glorious  morning,  George  Washington, 
standing  sword  in  hand,  over  the  dead  body  of  the  Hessian  Ralle,  confessed 
the  magic  influence  of  the  Author-Hero,  Thomas  Paine ! 

The  lowest  libeller  that  ever  befouled  a  pen,  a  vulgar  and  infamous 

fellow, — we  need  not  name  him — who  has  written  a  Lie  of  some  347 
pages,  and  called  it,  "  The  Life  of  Thomas  Paine,"  this  libeller,  who  spits 
his  venom  upon  the  memory  of  Franklin  and  Jefferson — in  fact,  combines, 
in  his  own  person,  more  of  the  dirty  in  falsehood — the  disgusting  in  ob 
scenity — the  atrocious  in  perjury — than  any  penster  that  ever  wrote  for 

British  Gold,  at  the  dictation  of  a  British  Court this  Biographer,  I  say, 

who  after  the  object  of  his  spite  was  dead,  sought  out  for  something  enef- 
fably  disgusting,  with  which  to  befoul  the  dead  man's  memory,  and  finding 
nothing  so  foul  as  his  own  base  soul,  poured  out  that  soul,  in  all  its  native 
filth,  upon  the  dead  man's  bones — this  creature,  whom  it  were  a  libel  upon 
human  nature  to  call — Man — Atheist,  Blasphemer,  libeller  of  the  dead  as 
he  was — even  He  confessed,  that  "  the  Pen  of  TOM  PAINE  was  as  for 
midable  to  the  British,  as  the  cannon  of  Washington  !" 

X.— THE  PEOPLE  AND  THE  CRIMINAL. 

Now,  my  friends  we  will  change  the  scene. 

Come  with  me  over  three  thousand  miles  of  waves,  come  with  me  to 
Paris. 

Come  with  me,  past  yon  heap  of  rocks  and  burnt  embers  : — the  ruins  of 


THE    PEOPLE   AND  THE    CRIMINAL.  431 

the  Baatile — come  with  me,  through  these  scattered  crowds  who  murmur 
in  the  streets — hush  '.  hold  your  breath  as  you  enter  this  wide  hall. 

What  see  you  now  ? 

A  splendid  chamber — splendid,  because  encircled  with  the  architectural 
trophies  of  four  hundred  years — a  splendid  chamber,  crowded  by  one  dense 
mass  of  human  beings.  Here — and  here — wherever  you  look,  you  see 
nothing  but  that  wall  of  human  faces. 

Does  not  the  awful  silence  that  broods  here,  in  this  splendid  saloon,  strike 
upon  your  hearts,  with  an  impression  of  strange  omen  ? 

Tell  me,  oh  tell  me,  and  tell  me  at  once,  what  means  the  horror  that  I 
see  brooding  and  gathering  over  this  wall  of  faces  ?  Listen  ! 

Here  in  this  hall,  the  people  of  France  have  gathered,  yes,  from  the  dear 
vallies  of  Provence  and  Dauphine — from  the  wilds  of  Bretagne — from 
the  palaces  and  huts  of  Paris,  the  people  have  gathered  to  try  a  great 
Criminal. 

That  criminal  sits  yonder  in  the  felon's  seat — a  man  of  respectable  ap 
pearance — sitting  there,  with  a  woman  of  strange  loveliness  by  his  side- 
sitting  there,  with  the  only  uncovered  brow  in  all  this  vast  assemblage  ! 

That  criminal  is  Louis  Capet,  he  is  to  be  tried  here  to  day,  for  treason  to 
the  people  of  France. 

And  when  you  look  upon  that  mild-visaged  man,  sitting  there,  with  the 
beautiful  woman  by  his  side,  and  feel  inclined  to  pity  him — to  weep  for 
that  tender  woman — as  you  see  the  lowering  looks,  of  this  vast  crowd  di 
rected  to  the  pair — as  you  feel  that  this  awful  silence,  brooding  and  gather 
ing  on  every  side,  speaks  a  terror,  a  horror  more  to  be  feared  than  the  loud 
est  words. — 

Then  as  pity,  sympathy,  gather  over  your  hearts,  then  I  pray  you  in  the 
name  of  God  to  remember,  that  this  man  here,  sits  clothed  with  the  groans, 
the  tears,  the  blood  of  fifteen  million  people — yes,  that  the  mildly  beautiful 
pearls,  that  rise  and  fall,  with  every  pulsation  of  that  woman's  bosom,  if 
transformed  into  their  original  elements,  would  flood  the  wide  hall  with  two 
rivers — a  river  of  tears,  a  river  of  blood  ! 

And  now,  as  the  great  question  is  about  to  be  decided — Shall  Louis  the 
Traitor-King,  live  or  die  ! — let  us  for  a  moment,  I  beseech  you,  look  at 
the  great  moral,  the  great  truth  of  this  scene 

Ah,  is  it  not  a  sublime  sight,  this  that  breaks  upon  our  eye — a  King  on 
Trial  for  treason  to  his  People  !  For  ages,  and  for  ages,  these  Kings  have 
waded  up  to  thrones,  through  rivers  of  blood,  yes  built  their  thrones  upon 

islands  of  dead  bodies,  centered  in  those  rivers  of  blood and  now,  and 

now,  the  cry  of  vengeance,  rising  from  fifteen  millions  up  to  God,  has 
pierced  the  eternal  ear,  and  called  his  vengeance  down ! 

It  is  a  sublime  sight  that  we  have  here — a  King  on  trisJ  for  his  crimes— 
his  people  the  judges  and  the  executioners. 


432  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,    1776. 

Do  you  know  the  regret  that  seizes  my  soul,  when  I  contemplate  this 
scene  ? 

That  we  Americans,  after  our  Revolution,  did  not  bring  our  Traitor  King. 
George  the  Third,  to  Independence  Hall !  and  there,  while  the  dead  of  the 
Revolution  gathered  around  him — yes  crowded  the  hall  and  oarKened  far 
over  Independence  Square — and  there  while  the  widows  and  the  orphans 
of  the  Massacred  heroes  came  to  the  bar,  blasting  the  Kingly  Murderer, 

I  with  their  cries  and  tears — I  do  regret,  that  we,  the  people,  did  not  try  the 
Traitor-King,  the  Murderer-Pope  for  his  crimes. 

Ah  would  not  that  have  been  a  solemn  scene  !  While  the  deep  groans 
the  orphans  wail  sadly  like  organ-music  pealing  from  the  grave,  while  the 
dead  gather  round  thronging  to  the  witness-seat — yes,  here,  come  the  Minis 
ters  of  Religion  kneeling  around  the  Felon-King — with  the  Book  of  God 
in  their  hands,  they  pray  for  his  guilty  soul — they  bid  him  prepare  for  the 
judgment  of  the  people.  They  point  to  yonder  square — they  point  to  the 
Scaffold — the  AXE  !  George  of  England,  prepare  !  This  day  convicted  of 
Treason  to  the  people,  convicted  of  wholesale  Murder,  committed  upon  a 
whole  Nation — "This  day  you  diel" 

Ah,  would  not  that  have  been  a  sight  for  a  world  to  see  ?  To  have  laid 
his  anointed  head  upon  the  block — to  have  sent  him  down,  the  shades 
death,  the  dead  around  him,  and  the  curses  of  millions  in  his  ears  ! 

Then  to  have  written  over  his  grave — "  Here  lies  the  Traitor-King,  con 
victed  of  MURDER  and  sentenced  to  death  one  month  after  the  capture  of 
YORKTOWN  !" 

But  we  are  in  Paris  again — again  we  stand  in  that  wide  hall,  where  Louis 
of  France,  awaits  his  fate. 

Hark !  at  this  moment  as  the  vote  is  about  to  be  taken,  a  man  short  in 
biature,  yet  with  a  bold  brow  rises  yonder — rises  and  pleads  for  the  life  of 
the  Traitor-King  1 

Yes,  with  outstretched  hands,  an  earnest  voice,  a  gleaming  eye,  that  man 
pleads  for  the  life  of  Louis  of  France  ! 

Let  us  not,  he  exclaims,  stain  our  glorious  cause,  even  with  the  blood  of 
a  King !  all  punishments  of  death,  are  abhorrent  in  the  eyes  of  God  !  Let 
us  tell  to  the  world  that  we  found  this  King  guilty  of  Treason,  Treason  to 
his  People  !  But  that  we  scorned  to  take  his  guilty  life  !  Punishment  by 
death  is  a  libel  on  God  and  Man — let  us  spare  the  Traitor-King !  Let  us 
remember  that  his  Government  with  its  ocean  of  crimes,  had  one  redeem 
ing  trait — it  was  this  King  who  gave  arms  and  men  to  Washington,  in  the 
war  of  the  American  Revolution  ! 

Let  then  these  United  States  be  the  safeguard  and  asylum  of  Louis 
Capet. — There,  far  removed  from  the  miseries  and  crimes  of  royalty,  he 
may  learn  that  the  system  of  government,  consists  not  in  Kings  but  in  the 
People. 

And  who  was  the  unknown  man,  who  companioned  only  by  men  like  La 


KING   GUILLOTINE.  43o 

Fayette,  stood  there  pleading  for  the  life  of  the  King?  "Who  was  this 
Stranger,  that  while  all  around  were  scowling  death  in  his  face,  dared  to  beg 
the  life  of  the  Traitor-King  ? 

A.h  that  little  man  who  stood  there,  alone  in  ihat  breathless  hall,  with 
such  mighty  eloquence  warming  over  his  lofty  brow  ? 

That  little  man  was  one  of  that  illustrious  band,  who  had  been  made 
citizens  of  France — France  the  Redeemed  and  New  Born  !  Yes,  with 
Macintosh,  Franklin,  Hamilton,  Jefferson  and  Washington,  he  had  been 
elected  a  citizen  of  France — with  these  great  men  he  hailed  the  era  of  the 
French  Revolution  as  the  dawn  of  God's  Millennium — he  had  hurried  to 
Paris,  urged  by  the  same  deep  love  of  man,  that  accompanied  him  in  the 
darkest  hours  of  the  American  Revolution, — and  there,  there  pleading  for 
the  Traitor-King,  alone  in  that  breathless  hall  he  stood,  the  Author-Her;>, 
THOMAS  PAINE  ! 

XI.— KING  GUILLOTINE. 

NEED  I  tell  you  that  his  pleading  was  in  vain  ?  Need  I  tell  you  that  ere 
the  last  word  died  on  his  lip,  up,  up,  from  a  thousand  souls — up,  up,  to  tie 
coiling  arose  the  terrible  syllable  DEATH  ! 

And  the  People  without,  the  legions  of  new-born  freemen,  extending  iar 
through  the  streets  of  Paris,  took  up  the  word — "  Death,  DEATH,  DEATH  !" 

Now  Louis  of  France — now  take  from  your  anointed  brows,  the  holy 
crown,  for  to  day  it  will  not  save  your  royal  head  ! 

Now  Marie  Antoinette,  fair  woman  whose  soft  form  has  hitherto  reposed 
on  beds  of  down,  now  take  from  your  snow-white  bosom  that  string  of 
pearls,  for  this  day  they  will  not  save  your  queenly  neck  ! 

Need  I  picture  my  friends,  the  terrible  scenes,  which  followed  the  con 
demnation  of  Louis  Capet  ? 

Now  Louis  Capet  being  dethroned,  there  reigned  in  Paris  another  King 
— let  us  go  there  through  the  streets  black  with  People,  and  look  at  him  ! 
There  in  the  centre  of  this  dense  crowd,  he  raises  his  gory  head — there  the 
sun  streams  over  his  bloody  outlines — there  gleams  his  dripping  axe — there 
there,  towering  above  the  heads  of  millions  behold  his  Bloody  Majesty, 
the  new  Lord  of  Paris,  KING  GUILLOTINE  ! 

A  strange  king  have  we  here — and  look  there,  standing  on  the  scaffold,  a 
burly  ruffian  towers  into  light,  his  bared  arms  red  with  blood,  his  hot  brow 
covered  by  a  hideous  scarlet  cap  !  That  half-clad  ruffian  is  one  of  the 
Courtiers  of  the  new  king,  that  is  The  Hangman,  Prime  Minister  to  KING 
GUILLOTINE  ! 

Now  let  us  take  our  station  by  his  throne  ;  let  us  behold  the  offerings 
which  are  brought  to  King  Gui'lotine  ! 

See — the  crowd  gives  way — hark  !  That  shout !  Louis  of  France 
kneels,  lays  his  head  upon  the  block — the  axe  falls  !  Behold  the  first 
offering  to  the  Bloody  Majesty  of  France — KING  GUILLOTINE  ! 


43A  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,  1776. 

Look — another  scene  breaks  on  our  view  !  The  soft  light  of  morning 
breaks  over  these  palaces,  over  the  spires  of  Notre  Dame — the  crowd  give 
way. 

Great  Heaven,  what  sight  is  this  ! 

The  crowd  give  way — a  lovely  woman  comes  trembling  up  the  scaffold 
steps  ! 

Oh,  how  beautiful !  Life  in  her  eyes,  on  her  dewy  lip,  life  in  her  young 
veins,  life  on  the  white  bosom,  that  heaves  tremulously  into  light. 

Look  !  with  one  rude  grasp  the  Hangman  tears  aside  the  robes  from  that 
white  bosom — she  kneels — Oh,  God  ! 

Is  not  that  a  fair  and  beautiful  neck  to  lay  upon  the  block  ?  She  kneels 
— the  axe  glimmers — falls  ! 

Ah,  can  that  head  rolling  there  like  a  football,  beneath  the  Executioner's 
feet,  that  head  with  the  long  hair  dabbled  in  blood,  can  that  be  the  head  of 
Marie  Antoinette  of  France  ? 

Now  let  us  wait  by  King  Guillotine  all  day  long — here,  from  the  death- 
carts  tumbled  out  upon  the  scaffold — here  old  man  and  maid,  here  Poet, 
Warrior,  Felon,  here  they  come  !  They  kneel — hark  !  The  sound  of  the 
falling  axe  !  The  sawdust  of  the  scaffold  is  drunk  with  blood — there  is  a 
pile  of  human  heads  rising  in  the  light !  Behold  the  offerings  to  King 
Guillotine  ' 

Thus  from  morning  till  night,  that  axe  glimmers  and  falls  !  Thus  from 
morning  till  night,  King  Guillotine  plies  his  task — the  gutters  of  Paris  run 
blood,  down  to  the  waters  of  the  Seine — the  graveyards  are  full.  King 
Guillotine  knows  not  where  to  bury  his  dead — the  stones  of  the  prison 
yards  are  taken  up — deep  pits  are  dug — here  bring  your  dead-carts,  here 
into  these  yawning  cavities,  pitch  them  all,  the  warrior  with  his  mangled 
form,  the  old  man  with  his  grey  hair,  the  maiden  with  her  trampled  bosom 
— here  pitch  them  all,  and  let  the  earth  hide  these  offerings  to  King 
Guillotine. 

Now  search  the  streets  of  Paris  for  the  noblest  and  pure-souled  Patriots 
of  the  Revolution — and  search  in  vain  !  They  are  gone — La  Fayette  and 
Paine,  and  all  the  heroes  are  gone.  In  their  place  speaks  that  great  orator. 
KING  GUILLOTINE. 

XII.-TRUTH  FROM    THE   CARNAGE. 

AND  here,  my  friends,  let  us  for  a  moment  pause,  even  amid  these  rivers 
of  blood,  to  look  the  Great  Truth  of  the  French  Revolution  in  the  face : 

Shall  I,  because  the  blood  is  yonder  in  curdling  pools,  shall  I  declare  tha* 
the  Principle  of  the  French  RevolutionVas  wrong  ? 

No  !     No  !     No  ! 

For  it  was  for  this  same  principle  that  Jesus  toiled — endured— di«d !  Il 
was  for  this  Principle  that  every  man  is  alike  the  child  of  Gpd,_th:it  the 
tears  of  Gethsemane  fell,  that  the  groans  of  Calvary  arose  ! 


TRUTH  FROM  THE  CARNAGE.  435 

Shall  I  be  ause  the  blood  flows  in  rivers  in  the  streets  of  France,  declare 
truth  to  be  a  liar — prate  of  the  atrocities  of  the  Revolution — or  sing  psalms 
over  the  graves  of  tyrants  and  kings  ? 

Remen.ber,  my  friends — and  O,  write  this  truth  upon  your  hearts — tha/ 
this  French  Revolution  was  the  first  effort  of  Man,  to  assert  his  rights  since 
the  crucifixion  of  the  Saviour. 

Remember,  that  between  the  Death  of  the  Blessed  Redeemer  and  the  Era 
of  the  French  Revolution,  every  atrocity  that  the  imagination  of  the  devils 
could  invent,  had  been  heaped  upon  mankind,  by  Kings  and  Priests  in  the 
name  of  God. 

Remember — wherever  Bigotry  has  reared  her  temples,  there  has  the 
name  of  God  been  polluted  by  the  foul  lips  of  Priests 

The  Hindoo  Mother  gives  her  child  to  the  Ganges,  in  the  name  of  God — 
the  car  of  the  Juggernaut  crushes  its  thousands,  in  the  name  of  God  ! 

In  a  single  war — a  war  that  swept  over  Germany  and  Bohemia — nine 
million  souls  went  down  to  one  bloody  grave,  because  their  King  and  his 
Priests  quarrelled  in  relation  to  this  great  question — whether  a  Church 
should  have  a  cross,  whether  a  Preacher  should  say  his  prayers  in  Latin 
or  Dutch  !  And  then  after  the  war  was  over,  booted  Priests  and  gowned 
troopers,  shouted  the  holy  name  of  God,  over  a  land  which  could  show  no 
fruits,  than  the  graves  of  nine  million  people  ! 

In  this  fair  land  of  the  New  World,  the  children  of  the  forest  were  hunted 
and  butchered  in  the  name  of  God  !  That  name  mingled  with  the  blood 
hound's  yell.  In  this  land,  helpless  women  and  aged  men  were  scourged 
and  burnt  to  death  by  grim  sectarians,  who  calmly  gazed  upon  the  writhing 
and  blackened  flesh  of  their  victims,  and  shouted  Glory  to  the  name  of 
God! 

In  this  name,  earth  has  been  desolated  ten  thousand  times,  and  ten  thou 
sand  times  again.  In  this  name,  the  gardens  of  the  world  have  been  trans 
formed  into  howling  deserts  ;  the  heart  of  man  changed  into  the  heart  of  a 
devil — in  this  name  home  has  been  made  a  hell. 

These  things  have  been  done  in  the  name  of  God  !  You  may  say  that 
they  were  the  work  of  ignorance,  of  superstition,  of  fanatacism,  but  still  that 

blistering  fact  stands  out  from  the  brow  of  history These  things  were 

done  in  the  name  of  God  ! 

And  shall  I  therefore  declare,  that  God  is  a  Lie  ?  Shall  I  therefore  de 
clare,  that  his  Book  is  a  Fable  ?  Shall  I,  because  the  name  of  God  has 
been  polluted,  his  holy  word  profaned,  shall  I  declare,  that  there  is  no  God 
— no  Revelation  ? 

As  well  these  absurdities,  as  declare  that  the  Principle  of  the  French 
Revolution — all  men  are  alike  the  children  of  God — is  false,  because  that 
Principle  was  profaned  by  deeds  of  Massacre — by  his  bloody  Majesty, 
King  Guillotine. 

Remember,  my  friends,  as  you  are  gazing  here,  upon  this  immense  cuowd, 


136  THE   FOURTH    OF   JULY,  177C. 

in  whose  midst  that  Guillotine  is  butchering  its  hundreds  and  thousands 
remember  also  to  gaze  upon  yonder  balcony,  projecting  from  the  wall  of 
the  Palace  of  the  Kings  of  France  ? 

Well — what  of  that  balcony 

W  hy,  my  friends,  on  that  balcony,  not  a  hundred  years  ago,  stood  Royal 
Charles  of  France,  while  the  darkness  of  night  was  broken  by  the  flames 
of  St.  Bartholomew  ! 

Yes,  there  he  stood,  gazing  with  a  calm  religious  joy,  upon  the  murder 
old  men,  women,  little  children, — going  forward  in  the  streets  below  !  Yes, 
there,  with  that  Woman-Fiend,  Catharine  of  Medici,  by  his  side,  there  stood 
the  King,  with  his  musquet  in  his  hand,  shooting  down  his  own  people — 
and  as  that  old  man  is  writhing  there,  as  that  woman  falls,  crushed  by  his 
shot — while  the  groans  of  three  hundred  thousand  human  beings,  murdered 
in  a  single  night,  between  the  setting  and  the  rising  of  the  sun,  go  up  to 
Heaven,  He,  the  King,  solemnly  calls  upon  Jesus  and  on  God  ! 

Multiply  the  victims  of  the  French  Revolution  by  ten  myriads,  and  they 
will  not  make  a  mole  hill,  beside  the  mountain  of  victims  of  Religious 
bigotry,  who  have  been  murdered  in  the  name  of  GOD. 

XIII.— THE  REIGN    OF  THE   KING   OF   TERROR. 

BUT  while  the  orgies  of  the  Revolution  are  filling  Paris  with  horror,  let 
as  search  for  Thomas  Paine  ! 

He  is  not  in  his  home — nor  in  the  Convention,  nor  in  the  streets — then 
where  is  he  ? 

Come  with  me,  at  dead  of  night,  and  T  will  show  you  a  strange 
scene. 

In  the  central  chamber  of  yonder  Royal  palace,  a  solitary,  dim,  flickering 
light  burns  in  the  socket. 

Yes,  a  solitary  light  stands  in  the  centre  of  that  chamber,  stands  on  the 
table  there,  flinging  its  feeble  rays  out  upon  the  thick  darkness  of  that  room. 

It  is  a  spacious  chamber,  but  you  can  discover  nothing  of  its  lofty  doors 
— nothing  of  the  tapestry  that  adorns  its  walls — for  all  save  that  spot  in  the 
centre  of  the  chamber,  where  the  light  is  burning,  all  is  darkness. 

I  ask  you  to  steep  your  souls  in  the  silence,  in  the  gloom  of  this  place, 
and  then  listen  to  that  creaking  sound  of  an  opening  door — that  low — steal 
thy  footstep. 

Behold  a  figure  advances — stands  there  with  one  hand  on  the  table — 

It  is  the  figure  of  a  slenderly  formed  man  dressed  in  the  extreme  of 
dandyism — a  jaunty  blue  coat — spotless  white  vest,  lined  with  crimson 
eatin — a  faultlessly  white  cravat. 

There  is  a  diamond  on  his  bosom — ruffles  round  his  wrists. 

Look  for  a  moment  at  his  face— the  features  small  and  mean — the  hue  a 
discolored  yellow  ;  the  eyes  bleared  and  blood-shot.  Who  is  this  puny 


THE  FALL  OF  KING  GUILLOTINE.  43T 

trembling  dandy,  who  stands  here,  with  that  paper  in  his  hand  at  dead  of 
night  ? 

That  puny  dandy,  is  the  King  of  King  Guillotine,  that  is  Maximilian 
Robespierre  !  The  paper  that  he  grasps  in  his  sallow  hands,  is  a  letter 
from  King  Robespierre  to  King  Gullotine  !  Eighty  victims  are  to  feed  the 
sawdust  and  the  axe  to-morrow  :  their  names  are  on  that  paper. 

And  now  as  we  stand  here  in  this  Palace  Hall,  gazing  upon  this  Blood 
thirsty  dandy,  let  us  look  at  his  malicious  lip,  how  it  writhes,  at  his  blood 
shot  eye,  how  it  gleams  with  spite  and  hate.  These  eighty  victims  sacra- 
ficed  ;  eighty  of  the  noblest  and  the  best  of  France  ;  then  the  Guillotine 
can  be  locked  up  forever,  then  the  name  of  Robespierre,  will  be  lost  in  the 
name  of  his  supreme  equality,  Maximillen,  the  First,  King  of  France  ! 

And  as  he  stands  there,  the  full  light  of  the  lamp,  streaming  over  his  dis 
colored  face  ;  let  us  look  over  his  shoulder  ;  let  us  read  the  names  on  this 
death-scroll ! 

There  are  the  names  of  Hero-men,  of  Hero-women,  and  first  in  ihe 
scroll,  you  see  the  names  of  Madame  La  Fayette  and  THOMAS  PAINE. 

Yes,  the  eye  of  Robespierre  gleams  with  a  terrible  light,  as  he  it  rests 
upon  that  name  ;  the  name  of  the  most  determined  foe. 

Thomas  Paine  !  To  night  he  paces  the  damp  floor  of  his  sleepless-otll 
— to-morrow  into  the  death-cart,  and  on  to  the  Guillotine — ho,  ho,  so  ends 
the  Author-hero,  Thomas  Paine! 

XIV.-THE  FALL  OF  KING  GUILLOTINE. 

LET  us  take  one  bold  look,  into  the  Hall  of  the  National  Assembly,  on 
the  next  day  !  What  see  we  here  ? 

Here  are  the  best,  the  bravest,  aye  and  the  bloodiest  of  all  France,  sitting 
silent — speechless — awed,  before  that  orange-visaged  dandy,  who  croucl/es 
on  the  Tribune,  yonder  ! 

Not  a  man  in  that  crowd,  dares  speak  !  Robespierre — the  Guillotine, 
Terror,  have  taken  fast  hold  upon  their  hearts  !  Every  man  in  that  dense 
ly-thronged  hall  looks  upon  his  neighbor  with  suspicion  ;  for  ^very  other 
man,  there  is  already  singled  out  as  the  victim  of  the  orange-fired  King,  in 
the  snow-white  vest !  It  is  not  known  who  the  next  victim  shall  be  ; 
wnere  the  tyrant  will  next  strike  and  kill ! 

Robespierre  has  carried  his  list  of  death  ;  has  made  his  fiery  speech  : 
France,  the  people,  the  bloody  and  the  brave,  sit  crouching  in  that  hall, 
before  that  slender  man,  with  blood-shot  eyes  ! 

Robespierre  in  fact  is  King — do  you  see,  that  biting  smile  stealing  over 
his  withered  face  !  There  is  triumph  in  that  mockery  of  a  smile  ! 

At  this  awful  moment,  when  all  is  silence  in  the  crowded  hall — behold — 
that  unknown  man,  rising  yonder,  far  from  the  Tribune — that  unknown  man 
who  trembling  from  head  to  foot,  pale  as  a  frozen  corpse, — rises  and  speaks 
a  word  that  turns  all  eyes  upon  him  : 


438  THE    FOURTH   OF   JULY,  2776. 

"  Room  !"  he  whispers  ;  and  yet  his  whisper  is  heard  in  every  heart-* 
•*  Room  there  ye  dead  !" 

He  pauses,  with  his  eye  fixed  on  vacancy. All  is  still — the  Conven 
tion  hold  their  breath — even  Robespierre  listens 

*4'  Room  there  ye  dead !"  again  whispers  that  unknown  man  ;  and  then 
oointing  to  the  white-vested  Tyrant,  his  voice  rises  in  a  shriek — "  Room  ye 
dead  !  Room  there — Room  ye  ghosts — room  in  hell  for  the  soul  of  Maxi- 
milien  Robespierre  !" 

Like  a  voice  from  the  grave,  that  word  startles  the  Convention — look ! 
Robespierre  has  risen — coward  as  he  is,  that  voice  has  palsied  his  soul. 

But  the  unknown  man  does  not  pause  !  In  that  some  deep  tone,  he  heaps 
up  the  crimes  of  Robespierre  in  short  and  fiery  words,  he  calls  the  dead 
from  their  graves  to  witness  the  atrocities  of  the  Tyrant ;  trembling  with 
the  great  deed  he  has  taken  upon  himself,  he  shrieks,  Go,  tyrant,  go  ! 
Go,  and  wash  out  your  crimes  on  the  gory  sawdust  of  King  Guillotine  !" 

From  that  hour,  Robespierre  the  Tyrant  was  Robespierre,  the  convicted 
criminal !  Look !  Covered  with  shames  and  scorns,  he  rushes  from  the 
hall — Hark  !  The  report  of  a  pistol !  What  does  it  mean  ? 

Let  us  away  to  King  Guillotine  and  ask  him ! 

Ha !  Give  way  there  Paris,  give  way,  who  is  it  that  comes  here — comes 
through  the  maddened  crowd ;  who  is  it,  that  more  dead  than  living,  comes 
on,  shrinking,  crouching,  trembling,  to  the  feet  of  Holy  King  Guillotine  ? 

Ah  !  That  horror-stricken  face,  yes,  that  face  with  that  bloody  cloth 
bound  around  the  broken  jaw — look  !  even  through  that  cloth,  the  blood 
drips  slowly  ;  he  bleeds,  it  is  Robespierre  ! 

Grasped  in  the  arms  of  men,  whom  the  joy  of  this  moment  has  mad 
dened  into  devils,  he  is  dragged  up  to  the  scaffold 

One  look  over  the  crowd — great  Heaven,  in  all  that  mass  of  millions, 
there  is  no  blessing  for  Maximilien  Robespierre  ! 

"  Water  !"  shrieks  the  Tyrant,  holding  his  torn  jaw,  "  Water,  only  a  cup 
of  water !" 

Look — his  cry  is  answered  !  A  woman  rushes  up  the  scaffold — a  woman 
who  yesterday  was  a  mother,  but  now  is  widowed,  because  Robespierre  and 
Death  have  grasped  her  boy. 

"  Water  ?"  she  echoes  ;  •*  Blood,  tyrant,  blood  !  You  have  given  France 
blood  to  drink — you  have  drank  her  blood  !  Now  drink  your  own  !" 

Look — oh,  horror — she  drags  the  bandage  from  his  broken  jaw — he  is 
bathed  in  a  bath  of  his  own  blood.  Down  on  the  block,  tyrant !  One 
gleam  of  the  axe — hurrah  for  brave  King  Guillotine  ! 

There  is  a  head  on  the  scaffold — and  there,  over  the  headless  corse, 
stands  that  Widow,  shrieking  the  cry  she  heard  in  the  Convention  to-day : 
M  Room  ye  dead  !  Room — for  the  Soul  of  Maximilien  Robespierre  I" 

*  This  phrase  occurs  in  Bulwer's  Zanoni. 


THE   BIBLE.  439    . 


XV.— THE   BIBLE. 

WE  have  seen  Thomas  Paine  standing  alone  in  the  Judgment  Hall  of  the 
French  Nation,  pleading — even  amid  that  sea  of  scowling  faces — for  the  life 
of  King  Louis. 

We  have  seen  him  with  Washington,  Hamilton,  Macintosh,  Franklin, 
and  Jefferson,  elected  a  Citizen  of  France.  With  these  great  men,  he 
hailed  the  dawn  of  the  French  Revolution  as  the  breaking  of  God's  Millen 
nium  ;  as  the  first  great  effort  of  Man  to  free  himself  from  the  lash  and 
chain,  since  the  crucifixion  of  the  Saviour. 

But  soon  the  dawn  was  overcast ;  soon  the  light  of  burning  rafters  flashed 
luridly  over  scenes  of  blood  ;  soon  all  that  is  grotesque,  or  terrible,  or  loath 
some  in  murder,  was  enacted  in  the  streets  of  Paris.  The  lantern  posts 
bore  their  ghastly  fruit ;  the  streets  flowed  with  crimson  rivers,  the  life- 
blood  often  thousand  hearts,  down  even  to  the  waters  of  the  Seine.  King 
Louis  was  dead ;  but  this  was  not  all.  Liberty  was  dead  also  \  butchered 
by  her  fireside. 

In  her  place  reigned  an  orange-faced  Dandy,  with  shrivelled  cheeks  and 
blood-shot  eyes.  La  Fayette  and  Paine,  and  all  the  heroes  were  gone  from 
the  councils  of  France,  but  in  their  place,  aye,  in  the  place  of  Poetry, 
Enthusiasm  and  Eloquence,  spoke  a  mighty  orator  —  KING  GUILLO 
TINE  ' 

For  eleven  months,  Thomas  Paine  lay  sweltering  in  a  gaol,  the  object  of 
ihe  fierce  indignation  of  Maximilien  Robespierre.  At  last  there  came  a  day 
when  he  was  doomed  ;  when  his  name  was  written  in  the  Judgment  List 
of  the  orange-faced  Dandy. 

Let  us  go  to  the  prison,  even  to  the  Palace  Prison  of  the  Luxemburg.  It 
is  high  noon.  A  band  of  eighty,  clustered  around  that  prison  door,  silently 
await  their  fate.  Here  amid  white-haired  old  men,  here  amid  trembling 
women,  all  watching  for  the  coming  of  the  death  messenger, — here,  silent, 
atern,  composed,  stands  the  author-hero,  Thomas  Paine 

Soon  that  prison  door  will  open ;  soon  the  death  cars  will  roll  ,4  soon  the 
axe  will  fall,  and  these  eighty  forms,  now  fired  with  the  last  glow  of  life, 
will  be  clay. 

But  look — the  gaoler  comes  !  A  man  of  dark  brow  and  savage  look ;  his 
arms  bared  to  the  shoulder,  displaying  the  sinews  of  a  giant.  He  comes, 
trudging  heavily  through  the  crowd  of  his  victims,  the  massive  key  of  the 
Palace  Prison  in  his  hand.  He  stands  for  a  moment,  looking  gloomily  over 
the  faces  of  his  prisoners  ;  he  places  the  key  in  the  lock.  Then  the  gloom 
vanishes  from  his  rough  face  ;  a  look  of  frenzied  joy  gleams  from  his  eyes  ; 
his  brawnv  chest  swells  with  a  maniac  shout. 


440  THE    FOURTH    OF   JULY,   1776. 

"  Go  forth  !"  he  shrieks,  rushing  the  first  through  the  opened  gates  ;  "  go 
forth,  young  and  old  ;  go  forth  all  I—for  Catiline  Robespierre  is  dead!" 

And  forth— while  the  air  is  filled  with  frenzied  shrieks  of  joy — forth  from 
the  Palace  Prison  walks  the  freed  hero,  the  Man  of  Two  Revolutions, 
Thomas  Paine. 

Now  comes  the  darkest  hour  of  his  life.  Now  comes  the  hour  when  we 
shall  weep  for  Genius  profaned  ;  when  we  shall  see  the  great  and  mighty, 
fallen  from  the  pedestal  of  his  glory  into  the  very  sink  of  pollution. 

Now  let  us  follow  the  path  of  Thomas  Paine,  as  his  first  step  is  to  reclaim 
the  Manuscript  of  a  work  which  he  wrote  eleven  months  ago,  before  his 
entrance  into  prison.  He  grasps  that  package  of  Manuscript  again  ;  let  us 
look  at  its  title  :  "  THE  AGE  OF  REASON." 

Here,  my  friends,  let  us  pause  for  a  moment.  Let  us  ask  that  man  of 
the  high  brow,  the  eloquent  eye,  the  face  stamped  with  a  great  soul— let  us 
ask  Thomas  Paine,  as  he  goes  yonder  through  the  streets  of  Paris,  to  do  a 
great  and  holy  deed  ? 

That  deed— what  is  it  ? 

Let  us  ask  him  to  take  the  Manuscript  in  his  hand,  to  tear  it  in  twain, 
and  hurl  the  fragments  there,  beneath  the  dripping  axe  of  the  Guillotine. 

Yes,  let  the  Guillotine  do  its  last  work  upon  this  Manuscript  of  Falsehood ; 
let  the  last  descent  of  the  gory  axe  fall  on  its  polluted  pages.  For  while 
this  "Age  of  Reason"  speaks  certain  great  Thoughts,  announcing  the  author's 
belief  in  a  God  and  Immortality — thoughts  derived  from  the  Bible — it  is 
still  a  jest  book,  too  vile  to  name. 

It  is  true,  it  speaks  of  God  and  Immortality ;  but  it  also  heaps  its  vile 
jests,  its  vulgar  scorn  upon  Jesus,  the  Redeemer  of  Man,  and  Mary  the 
Virgin  Mother. 

Let  me  tell  you  at  once,  my  friends,  that  I  stand  here  to-night,  a  preju 
diced  man.  Let  me  at  once  confess,  that  it  has  ever  been  my  study,  my 
love,  to  bend  over  the  dim  pages  of  the  Hebrew  volume — to  behold  the 
awful  form  of  Jehovah  pending  over  chaos ;  to  hear  that  voice  of  Omnipo 
tence  resound  through  the  depths  of  space,  as  these  words  break  on  my 
soul:  "  VAYOMER  ALOHEIM:  YEHEE  AUR  VAYEHEE  AUR  !" — Then  spake 
God  :  let  there  be  light  and  light  there  was!'1 

Or  yet  again,  to  behold  that  Jehovah,  descended  from  the  skies,  walking 
yonder  with  the  Patriarchs,  yonder  where  the  palrns  arise,  and  the  tents 
whiten  over  the  plain.  Or,  in  the  silence  of  night,  to  look  there,  through 
the  lone  wilderness,  where  the  Pillar  of  Fire  beacons  Moses  the  Deliverer 
towards  the  Promised  Land ;  or  to  enter  the  solemn  temple  of  Jerusalem, 
and  behold  the  same  Jehovah,  shining  in  the  holiest  place,  shining  over  the 
Ark  of  the  Covenant,  so  awfully  serene,  yet  sublime. 

Lei  me  tell  you,  that  I  have  been  with  the  Arab,  JOB,  as  he  talked  face 
to  face  with  God,  and  in  images  of  divine  beauty,  spoke  forth  the  writhmgs 
of  his  soul ;  as  in  words  that  your  orators  of  Greece  and  Rome  never  spoke 


THE    BIBLE.  441 

or  dreamed,  he  pictures  the  littleness  of  life,  the  Majesty  of  Omnipotence, 
the  sweet,  dear  rest  of  the  untroubled  grave.  "  There  the  wicked  cease 
from  troubling-  and  the  weary  be  at  rest." 

I  have  bent  over  this  New  Testament,  and  traced  the  path  of  God  as  he 
walked  the  earth  enshrined  in  human  flesh.  Is  there  no  beauty  here,  to 
warm  the  heart  and  fire  the  brain  ?  Even  as  we  read,  does  not  the  face 
of  Jesus  start  from  the  page — that  face  that  painter  never  painted,  with  its 
§erene  Divinity  looking  out  from  the  clear,  deep  eyes.  That  face  which 
we  may  imagine,  with  its  flowing  hair  falling  gently  down  from  the  brow 
where  "  GOD"  is  written  in  every  outline,  with  the  lips  wreathing  with  such 
eternal  love  for  poor  forsaken  man,  whether  he  sweats  in  the  workshop  or 
grovels  in  the  mine.  Yes,  I  have  followed  that  face,  as  it  appeared  above 
the  hill-top  at  even,  in  the  golden  twilight  of  Palestine,  and  approached  the 
Poor  Man's  hut,  and  shone  in  the  dark  window,  upon  the  hard  crust  of  the 
slave.  How  the  Poor  rose  up  to  welcome  that  face  ;  how  rude  men  bent 
down  before  it  and  wept ;  how  tender  women  knelt  in  its  light  and  gazed 
in  those  Divine  eyes  !  Then  how  the  voice  of  Jesus  rung  out  upon  the 
air,  speaking  in  dark  huts  great  words  that  shall  never  die  ! 

Yes,  I  have  followed  that  Man  of  Nazareth  over  stony  roads,  by  the 
waves  of  Galilee,  into  the  Halls  of  Pilate  ;  and  there — yes,  up  the  awful 
clifls  of  Calvary,  when  Jerusalem  poured  through  its  gates  by  tens  of  thou 
sands,  under  the  darkened  heavens,  over  the  groaning  earth,  to  look  upon 
the  face  of  the  dying  God,  as  the  heavy  air  rung  with  that  unspeakable 
agony  :  *'  My  God,  my  God,  why  hast  thou  forsaken  me  !" 

Let  me  at  once  confess,  that  if  the  Bible  is  a  Fable,  it  is  a  Fable  more 
op-autiful  than  all  the  classics  of  Greece  and  Rome.  Paint  for  me  your 
Cicero  and  Demosthenes  in  all  their  glory,  and  I  will  paint  you  that  bold 
forehead  and  those  earnest  eyes  of  Saint  Paul,  as,  rising  from  his  midnight 
toil,  his  voice  echoes  the  words  he  has  just  written  ;  those  words  that  live 
forever,  as  though  each  word  was  an  Immortal  Soul — 

In  a  moment,  in  a  twinkling  of  the  eye,  at  the  last  trump,  for  the 
trumpet  shall  sound,  and  the  dead  shall  be  raised  incorruptible,  and  we 
xha/l  be  changed. 

For  this  corruption  must  put  on  incorruption,  and  this  mortal  must 
pjt  on  immortality. 

Search  your  Poets  for  scenes  of  that  quiet  pathos  which  at  once  melts 
and  elevates  the  soul — search  your  Homer,  your  Shakspeare  ;  search  them 
all,  the  venerable  Seers  of  Ages,  and  I  will  point  you  to  a  single  line  that 
puts  them  all  to  shame  !  It  is  in  the  New  Testament,  where  Jesus  the 
Christ  is  dead  and  buried.  It  is  on  that  serene  morning,  when  the  sun 
beams  shine  over  the  sepulchre  of  the  Saviour.  Three  women,  the  blessed 
Maries,  come  there  to  weep  over  the  body  of  their  Lord.  Yes,  all  the 
M  odd  has  forsaken  him  :  all  save  Peter  the  Faithless  yet  Lion-hearted, 
John  the  Beloved,  and  these  three  women.  They  look  into  the  sepulchre 


442  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,    1776. 

— it  is  empty.  The  grave-clothes  are  there,  but  the  Lord  is  gone.  At 
this  moment,  a  poor,  abandoned  woman,  whom  the  good  Christ  had  lifted 
up  to  virtue  ar.J  forgave,  even  as  she  washed  his  feet  with  her  tears — yes, 
«t  this  moment,  sad,  tearful,  Mary  Magdalene  approaches  a  being  whom  she 
mistakes  for  the  gardener.  Listen  to  the  words  of  scripture.  This  being 
speaks: 

"  Woman,  why  weepest  thou  ?" 

She,  supposing  him  to  be  the  gardener,  said  unto  him, 

"  Sir,  if  thou  hast  borne  him  hence,  tell  me  where  thou  hast  laid  him, 
ind  I  will  take  him  away." 

Jesus  saith  unto  her,  "  Mary  /" 

She  turned  herself  and  said  unto  him,  "  Master  !" 

This  is  all  the  gospel  says  of  the  matter,  but  is  not  this  one  line  full  of 
eternal  beauty :  "  Jesus  saith  unto  her,  *  Mary  !'  "  No  long  explanations, 
no  elaborate  phrase,  no  attempt  to  awe  or  surprise  ;  but  one  simple  word, 
that  word  her  name,  spoken  in  the  tones  she  loved  to  hear. 

Can  you  not  hear  his  voice,  speaking  in  those  well-remembered  tones  ? 
Can  you  not  see  his  hand  extended  in  a  gesture  of  benediction,  as  his  eye 
/  |  lights  up  with  an  expression  of  brotherly  tenderness  ? 

That  one  scene  by  the  sepulchre,  where  the  Magdalene,  an  image  of 
beauty  purified  by  religion,  bends  delighted  before  the  serenely  divine  face 
of  the  risen  Jesus,  while  the  sunbeams  of  that  calm  dawn  fell  gently  over 
the  grave-clothes  which  no  longer  clasp  the  dead — that  one  scene,  sublime 
in  its  very  simplicity  considered  as  a  mere  composition,  is  worth  all  the 
pathos  of  Greece  and  Rome. 

Yes,  if  the  Bible  is  a  fable,  it  is  a  fable  more  beautiful  than  all  the  iron- 
hearted  sophistry  of  your  cold-blooded  Philosophers— it  is  a  Fable  that 
through  all  time  has  girded  up  the  hearts  of  patriots  on  the  scaffold  and  the 
battle-field — it  is  a  Fable  that  has  shone  like  a  glory  over  ten  thousand 
dying  beds.  If  that  Bible  is  a  Fable,  then  is  it  a  Fable  that  bursts  like  a 
blaze  of  love  and  beauty  through  the  dark  cloud  of  human  guilt,  and  lights 
a  way  from  the  dull  grave  up  to  Immortality  and  God. 

Ah,  had  I  been  Thomas  Paine— had  his  great  brain,  his  great  soul  been 
mine,  then  would  I  have  taken  my  stand  here  on  the  Bible  with  Jesus. 
Then  from  this  book  would  1  have  told  the  host  of  hypocrites  who  like 
slimy  lizards,  crawl  up  on  the  Altar  of  God  and  sit  there  in  all  their  loath 
someness,  then  would  I  have  told  these  mockers  of  God,  that  here  from  this 
Bible,  even  the  mild  spirit  of  Jesus  is  roused — to  rebuke — to  scorn — to  speak 
terror  to  their  souls  ! 

Because  hypocrites  have  made  merchandize  of  God's  Book,  and  split  his 
cross  into  pedlar's  wares,  shall  I  therefore  heap  scorn  upon  that  serenely 
beautiful  face,  looming  out  from  the  Bible ;  that  face  of  Jesus,  the  Redeemer 
of  Man  ?  Because  hypocrites  and  kings  have  taken  the  seamless  robe  of 
Christ  and  parted  it  into  cords,  to  bind  men's  necks  and  hands  and  hearts, 


THE   BIBLE.  443 

am  I  to  deride  that  Christ,  scorn  that  Jesus,  who  stands  there  forever  above 
the  clouds  of  human  guilt,  the  only  Redeemer  of  Man,  the  only  Messiah 
of  the  Poor  ? 

Here  was  the  terrible  mistake  of  Thomas  Paine.  He  mistook  the  cloud 
which  marred  the  sun  for  the  sun  itself;  he  mistook  the  abuses  of  men,  the 
frauds  of  hypocrites,  the  lies  of  fabulists,  which  have  been  done  and  uttered 
in  the  name  of  Christianity,  for  Christianity  itself. 

He  lived  in  an  age  when  Light  and  Darkness  struggled  together,  when 
the  earth  was  convulsed  from  cottage  to  throne.  He  had  done  a  great  deed 
when  he  wrote  that  book  of  "  Common  Sense,"  which  derives  its  strongest 
arguments  from  the  Bible,  for  it  quotes  the  memorable  words  of  the  prophet 
Samuel  against  Monarchy  and  King-worshippers.  This  book  of  Common 
Sense,  founded  on  the  Bible,  was  the  forerunner  of  the  Declaration  of  In 
dependence. 

But  now  Paine  fell  into  the  deplorable  error  of  mistaking  certain  wolves, 
who  assumed  the  fleece  of  religion,  for  the  true  sheep  of  the  Lord  Jesus. 
He  attacked  Christianity  in  this  ribald  book,  written  in  that  style  of  contro 
versial  blackguardism,  which  was  first  used  by  pretended  followers  of  Christ, 
who  reduced  their  Master  to  an  Enigma,  his  religion  to  a  sophistry.  This 
pitiable  style  which  makes  up  in  filth  what  it  wants  in  grandeur,  and  mis 
takes  a  showy  falsehood  for  a  solid  truth,  was  used  by  Paine  in  his  Age  of 
Reason.  It  was  beneath  him  ;  far  beneath  the  genius  of  the  man  who 
wrote  "  Common  Sense."  It  has  left  his  name,  as  the  author  of  this  work, 
but  a  wreck  on  a  desert  shore ;  while  that  name,  when  known  as  the  author 
of  "  Common  Sense,"  is  cherished  by  the  wise  and  good  all  over  the 
land. 

The  position  which  I  have  assumed  in  this  history  is  a  plain  one.  No 
one  but  a  fool  can  mistake  it.  I  found  the  character  of  "  Thomas  Paine, 
Author  of  Common  Sense,"  wronged  and  neglected.  I  took  up  that  char 
acter,  defended  it,  placed  it  on  the  pedestal  where  Washington  and  Jeffer 
son  had  placed  it  once  before.  No  selfish  motive  actuated  me  in  this  work. 
Paine  has  no  relatives  living  to  thank  me  ;  nor— if  my  object  was  money — 
has  he  any  rich  friends  to  pay  me  for  the  task.  I  think,  therefore,  that  the 
most  prejudiced  man  will  acknowledge  that  my  motives  here  have  been 
pure,  honest,  above  all  mercenary  considerations. 

A  fact  that  speaks  for  itself,  is  this  :  while  an  ATHEISTICAL  PAPER  abuses 
me  as  a  Bigot,  another  paper,  governed  by  no  particular  morality  or  be 
lief,  but  supplying  the  place  of  Religion  with  Bigotry,  calls  me  an — 7/i- 
fidel!  Does  not  this  speak  volumes  ?  In  this  case  extremes  meet,  for  the 
snake  puts  his  tail  in  his  mouth. 

Without  one  sordid  motive,  without  one  base  fear,  have  I  called  up  the 
records  of  the  past,  the  voices  of  the  dead,  to  testify  the  character  and 
genius  of  Thomas  Paine,  the  Author  of  Common  Sense. 

And  now,  without  one  sordid  motive,  without  one  base  fear,  do  1  record 


444  THE   FOURTH   OF  JULY,  1776. 

my  sorrow  that  a  man  like  this  should  have  written  so  paltry  a  book  as  the 
Age  of  Reason  ;  ray  detestation  of  the  style  and  principles  of  that  work  ; 
my  pity  for  the  individual  who,  in  our  day,  could  be  turned  from  his  Sa 
viour  by  arguments  and  sneers  so  puerile  as  are  written  in  its  pages. 

For  the  Religion  of  Jesus  is  not  a  thing  of  an  hour  or  a  day,  that  it 
should  be  undermined  by  a  sneer  or  crushed  by  a  falsehood.  It  is  built  up 
in  too  many  hearts,  it  brings  too  much  hope  to  poor  desolate  man,  it  holds 
out  too  glittering  beacons  of  Immortality,  ever  to  die.  When  it  survived 
the  wounds  it  received  from  pretended  friends  during  a  course  of  eighteen 
hundred  years,  shall  it  die  of  a  single  Voltaire  or  Paine  ?  The  Christianity 
of  the  heart,  which  cheers  us  in  toil,  lights  our  homes  with  a  gleam  from 
God's  heaven,  smoothes  our  pillow  in  sickness,  and  in  the  sad,  stern  hour 
of  death,  sings  hymns  to  our  parting  soul  and  leads  it  gently  home  to  Im 
mortality — Can  this  Religion  of  the  heart  ever  die  ? 

Speak,  Mother,  bending  over  your  child,  as  you  tell  him  of  the  Jesus  who 
gathered  the  little  children  to  his  breast— can  this  Religion  die  ?  Speak, 
Father,  old  man,  now  bending  beside  your  daughter's  corse,  gazing  upon 
that  face  cold  in  death,  with  your  earnest  eyes,  speak  and  tell  us  !  Can  a 
Religion  that  comforts  you  in  an  hour  like  this,  that  assures  you  your  child 
is  not  dead  but  gone  home,  can  this  Religion  die  !  Speak,  slave  of  the 
workshop  and  mine,  now  toiling  on  for  a  hard  crust,  with  the  sweat  on 
your  brow,  the  agony  in  your  heart— can  this  Religion  die  ?  This  Religion 
which  tells  you  that  God  himself  did  not  disdain  to  take  the  form  of  a  man 
of  toil,  in  order  to  make  your  fate  better  in  this  world,  and  give  you  Im 
mortality  in  the  next  ? — Speak,  Bigot — even  you,  whom  Christ  pities  and 
forgives — even  you,  last  object  of  imbecility  and  malice — speak  and  tell  us  ! 
C  in  a  Religion  that  stoops  so  far  in  its  mercy,  as  to  save  you,  ever  die  ? 

Speak,  Universal  Man,  and  answer  us  !  Can  a  Religion  which  binds 
itself  to  your  heart,  links  its  eternal  form  with  your  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes 
and  fears,  soothes  you  in  toil  and  sickness,  appeals  to  your  imagination 
with  its  images  of  divine  loveliness,  elevates  you  with  its  Revelation  of  Im 
mortality  from  a  mere  lump  of  clay  almost  into  Godhead — Can  this  Religion 
of  the  heart  ever  die  ? 

\^ 

Here  is  the  mournful  lesson  of  Thomas  Paine's  life  :  A  great  man,  when 
he  titters  a  great  truth,  raises  himself  to  the  dignity  of  an  Angel :  the 
same  great  man,  uttering  a  Lie,  degrades  himself  below  the  beast. 

When  Thomas  Paine  wrote  "  Common  Sense,"  he  uttered  a  Truth, 
(founded  on  the  Bible,)  which  aroused  a  whole  Continent  to  its  destiny. 
For  this  we  honor  him. 

When  the  same  Thomas  Paine  wrote  the '  Age  of  Reason,'  he  uttered  an 
Error,  opposed  to  the  Bible  and  in  direct  contradiction  of  his  former  work, 
COMMON  SENSE.  For  this  we  pity  him. 

The  effect  of  the  "  Age  of  Reason,"  has  long  since  passed  away,  but  the 
good  work  of  "  Common  Sense,"  is  seen  in  this  great  spectacle  of  Twenty- 


THE   DEATH-BED    OF    THOMAS   PAINE.  4*5 

aine  Commonwealths,  combined  in  one  great  Republic,  extending  from  tiis 
Aroostook  to  the  Rio  Grande. 

Have  I  made  myself  sufficiently  plain  ? — Has  that  man  a  well-balanced 
mind  who  can  now  mistake  my  position  ?  If  there  is  such  a  man  within 
sound  of  my  voice,  I  would  remind  him  that  it  is  my  duty  to  supply  him 
with  information,  but  a  Divine  Power  alone  can  furnish  with  brains. 

Again  I  repeat — had  I  been  Thomas  Paine,  I  would  have  learned  this 
great  truth  :  The  path  of  the  true  Reformer  is  not  against,  but  ever  and  ever 
more  with  JESUS. 

XVI.— THE  DEATH-BED  OF  THOMAS  PAINE. 

COME  with  me  to  that  Long  Island  shore — come  with  me  to  the  farm  of 
New  Rochelle,  where  an  old  man  is  dying. 

Let  us  enter  this  rude  and  neglected  room.  There,  on  yonder  bed,  with 
the  June  breeze — oh,  it  is  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  land  and  ocean, — with 
the  June  breeze  blowing  softly  through  the  open  window — with  gleams  ot 
June  sunlight  upon  his  brow — there,  propped  up  by  pillows,  on  his  death 
bed,  sits  an  old  man. 

That  form  is  shrunk — that  face  stamped  with  the  big  wrinkles  of  age  and 
alcohol — yet  the  brow  still  looms  out,  a  tower  of  thought,  the  eye  still  glares 
from  that  wreck  of  a  face — glares  with  soul. 

He  is  dying.  Death  in  the  trembling  hands — death  in  the  brightening 
eyes — death  in  every  bead  of  sweat  upon  the  brow. 

And  who  is  here  to  comfort  that  old  man  ?  Wife,  child  ?  Ah,  none  of 
these  are  here  !  No  softly-whispered  voice  speaks  love  to  the  passing 
soul — no  kind  and  tender  hand  puts  back  the  grey  hair  from  -the  damp 
brow. 

Yet  still  that  old  man  sits  there  against  the  pillow,  silent,  calm,  firm. 

Softly  blow  the  June  breezes — softly  pours  the  mild  sunlight — sunlight 
and  breezes,  he  is  about  to  leave  forever,  and  yet  he  is  firm. 

Oh,  tell  me,  my  friends,  why  does  this  death-room  seem  so  awfully  still 
and  desolate? 

It  is  not  so  much  because  there  is  no  wife,  no  child  here — not  because 
there  is  no  kind  hand  to  smooth  back  the  grey  hairs  from  the  damp  brow — 
but  O,  Father  of  souls — 

Here  in  this  still  room,  with  its  poor  furniture,  its  stray  sunlight,  and  its 
summer  breeze, — here,  in  this  still  room,  there  is  no  mildly-beautiful  face 
of  JESUS,  the  redeemer,  to  look  upon  the  old  man,  to  gleam  beside  his  bed, 
to  smile  immortality  in  his  glazing  eyes. 

This  makes  the  room  so  awfully  still  and  desolate. 

There  is  no  JESUS  here  ! 

Yes,  without  a  word  of  recantation  on  his  lip — firm  to  his  belief — one 
God,  and  no  Jesus — firm  to  his  stoical  creed,  which  is  all  reason  and  no 


446  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY.  1776. 

faith,  the  old  man,  Thomas   Paine,  picks  at  the  coverlid,  and  takes   death 
calmly  by  the  hand. 

Now  look,  in  this  dread  hour  two  men  come  forward,  a  J)octor  and  a 
Preacher.  What  is  their  mission  here  !  Do  they  take  the  old  man's  hands 
within  their  own,  and  chafe  away  the  death-chill  ?  Oh,  no  ! 

While  one  has  note  and  pencil  in  hand,  the  other  leans  over  the  bed. 
Don't  you  see  his  pitiful,  whining  face  ?  He  leans  over  the  bed  and  whis 
pers,  or  rather  screeches, — Mister  Paine,  we  wish  to  know  whether  you 
have  changed  your  religious  opinions  ?  Do  you  believe  in  our  creed  ? 

And  while  the  Doctor  is  ready,  with  his  pencil,  the  Preacher  leans  gasp 
ingly  there — awaits  his  answer  ! 

Does  not  this  scene  disgust  you  ?  There  are  two  pedlars  of  death-bed 
confessions,  waiting  to  catch  the  last  gasp  of  poor  Tom  Paine  ! 

Do  you  think,  my  friends,  that  the  cause  of  Christ  depends  upon  narrow- 
Bouled  bigots  like  these — who,  instead  of  placing  the  cup  of  cold  water  to 
the  lips  of  the  death-stricken,  come  here,  around  the  death-bed,  smelling  of 
creeds,  and  breathing  cant  all  the  while — and  insult,  with  their  paper  and 
pencil,  the  last  hours  of  a  dying  old  man  ? 

Would  your  Fenelon,  your  Luther,  your  Wesley,  have  done  thus  ? 
Would  your  Bishop  White,  or  your  Channing,  talked  to  a  dying  man,  with 
paper  and  pencil  in  hand,  instead  of  moistening  his  lips  with  the  cup  of 
water,  or  soothing  his  soul  with  the  great  truths  of  Christ !  Nay — would 
the  blessed  Redeemer  himself,  who  ever  lifted  up  the  bowed  head,  ever  for 
gave  the  trembling  sinner,  ever  reached  forth  the  arms  of  his  Godhead  to 
snatch  despaii  from  its  sins  and  woes — would  he  have  entered  thus  the 
chamber  of  a  dying  man,  to  talk  of  creeds,  when  there  was  a  soul  to  be 
redeemed  !*  The  thought  is  blasphemy  ! 

Now  listen  to  the  only  answer,  what  these  bigots  could  expect.  The 
old  man  looked  in  their  faces,  stamped  with  the  petty  lines  of  sectarian 
Pharicaism,  and  answered — 

"  /  have  no  desire  to  believe  in  anything  of  the  kind!"  says  the  old  man, 
and  turned  his  face  to  the  wall. 

At  this  moment,  look  !  Another  man  appears  on  the  scene.  He  is 
dressed  in  the  garb  of  a  Quaker.  He  pushes  the  bigots  aside — waves  these 
Pencillers  from  the  room,  and  then — God's  blessing  upon  his  head — takes 
the  old  man  by  the  hand,  and  silently  smooths  back  the  damp  hair  from  his 
brow. 

Paine  looks  his  speechless  thanks  to  that  stout-hearted  Quaker's  face. 

"  Friend  Thomas,"  says  the  Friend,  "  trust  in  Christ.  He  died  for  thee. 
His  mercy  is  fathomless  as  the  sea  !" 

Never  did  the  plain  coat  and  broad-brimmed  hat  look  more  like  an  Angel's 
garb  than  then.  Not  even  in  the  hour  when  William  Penn,  under  the  Elm 
of  Shackamaxon,  spoke  immortal  words  to  rude  red  men.  Never  did  the 
Quaker  "  thee"  and  **  thou"  sound  more  lovely,  more  like  an  angel's  tongue, 


THE   DEATH-BED  OF   THOMAS  PAINE.  447 

than  then  !  Not  even  when,  from  the  lips  of  Apostle  William,  it  sent  forth 
from  the  shores  of  Delaware,  to  all  the  world,  the  great  message  of  Peace 
and  Toleration. 

Thomas  Paine  grasped  that  Quaker  by  the  hand,  and  gazed  in  his  face 
with  dim  eyes. 

Now,  my  friends,  do  not  let  your  hearts  falter,  but  go  with  me  to  the  end 
of  this  scene.     What  is  the  mission  of  this  Quaker  to  the  author  of  "  Com 
mon  Sense?"     Why,  he  has  been  abroad  all  the  morning,  trying  to  secure/ 
a  grave — a  quiet,  secluded,  unknown  resting-place  for  Tom  Paine.     He  has  : 
been  to  all  the  churches — all !     For  a  dark  thought  troubles  the  last  hours  \ 
of  Paine,  the  thought  that  his  remains  will  rest  unhonored,  above  ground,  i 
unsheltered  by  the  repose  of  a  grave. 

This  was  but  human,  after  all.  He  believed  his  soul  would  not  die.  He 
did  not  wish  the  aged  clay  which  enshrined  that  soul  to  be  the  object  of 
contempt  or  insult,  after  his  death. 

Now  look — while  the  Quaker  grasps  his  hand,  the  dying  man  looks  in 
his  face. 

"  Will  they,"  he  murmurs  in  a  husky  whisper,  "  will  they  give  me  a 
grave  ?" 

The  Quaker  turns  his  head  away.  He  cannot  answer.  Still  Paine 
clutches  that  hand — still  repeats  the  question.  At  last,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  with  choking  utterance,  the  Quaker  gasps  a  syllable : 

"  No  !  Friend  Paine — no  !  I  have  been  to  them  all — to  all  the  Christian 
cnurcnes — all .  And  all — yea,  all  of  these  followers  of  Jesus,  who  forgave 
the  thief  on  the  Cross — all  refuse  thy  bones  a  grave  !" 

That  was  a  crushing  blow  for  poor  Tom  Paine.  That  was  the  last  drop 
in  the  full  cup  of  his  woe  ;  the  last  kick  of  Bigotry  against  the  skull  of  a 
dying  old  man. 

He  never  spoke  again. 

As  if  this  last  scorn  of  these  Infidel-Christians  had  gathered  his  heart 
and  crushed  it  like  a  vice,  then  the  old  man  silently  released  his  hand  from 
the  grasp  of  the  Quaker — silently  folded  his  arms  over  his  breast — dropped 
his  head  slowly  down,  and  was — DEAD  ! 

Now  look  yonder,  as  the  soul  of  that  old  man  goes  up  to  judgment — look 
there,  as  the  soul  of  Thomas  Paine  stands  arrayed  before  that  face  of  Inn 
nite  Mercy,  and  answer  me  ! 

Who  would  not  sooner  be  Tom  Paine — there,  before  that  bar  of  Jesus 
— with  all  his  virtues  and  errors  about  him,  than  one  of  the  misguided 
bigots  who  refused  his  bones  a  grave  ? 

Think  of  the  charity  which  Jesus  preached  before  you  answer  ! 

And  as  we  quote  the  terrible  truth  of  those  words,  which  I  found  written 
m  an  old  volume,  in  the  dim  cloisters  of  the  Franklin  Library — 

'•  He  has  no  name.  The  country  for  which  he  labored  and  suffered, 
\nows  him  not.  His  ashes  rest  in  a  foreign  land.  Jl  rough,  grass-grown 


44b  THE  FOURTH   OF   JULY.  1776. 

•nound,fiom  which  the  bones  have  been  purloined,  is  all  tfiat  remains  on 
he  Continent  of  America,  to  tell  of  the  Hero,  the  Statesman,  the  friend 
./  Man.'" 

I  say,  as  we  quote  the  terrible  truth  of  these  words,  let  us  go  yonder  to 
Jhat  deserted  spot,  near  New  Rochelle.  Let  us  bend  over  that  deserted 
mound,  covered  with  rank  grass,  read  the  inscription  on  that  rough  stone, 
and  then — while  the  Unbeliever  is  with  his  God,  into  whose  awful  councils 
nor  bigotry  nor  hate  can  enter — let  us  remember,  that  this  simple  monu 
ment  is  the  only  memorial  on  the  Continent  of  America,  of  that  Author- 
Hero  who  first  stood  forth  the  Prophet  of  our  rights,  the  compatriot  of 
Jefferson,  the  friend  of  Washington,  the  author  of  "  Common  Sense," — 
poor  TOM  PAINE  ! 

Rememoer,  then,  that  the  hand  which  mouldered  to  dust,  beneath  thif 
stone,  was  the  first  to  write  the  words — 

»»THB  FREE  AND  INDEPENDENT  STATES  or  AMERICA." 


THE   LAST   DAY    OF  JEFFERSON    AND   ADAMS.  449 


XVII.— REVIEW   OF  THE   HISTORY. 

THIS  is  a  strange  and  crowded  history.  Not  only  the  great  day  on  which 
the  Declaration  was  signed,  and  a  Continent  declared  free,  has  been  described, 
but  the  eternal  cause  of  that  Declaration,  reaching  over  a  dark  chaos  of 
eighteen  hundred  years,  has  been  recognized  in  its  characters  of  light  and 
beauty.  From  the  day  of  July  the  Fourth,  1776,  we  have  gone  to  the  day 
when  the  world  was  in  mourning  for  its  God — incarnating  in  the  form  of  a 
mechanic,  by  the  death  of  shame,  on  the  felon's  cross.  We  have  traced  the 
great  facts  of  the  Rights  of  Man,  from  humble  Independence  Hall,  to  the 
awful  cliff  of  Calvary.  From  Christ  the  Redeemer,  we  have  followed  t!;e 
track  of  light  through  the  mist  of  ages,  down  to  his  great  apostle,  the  Paul 
of  the  seventeeth  century,  William  Penn.  From  Penn  to  Washington  and 
Jefferson  and  Adams  and  Paine,  all  human,  yet  rising  into  heroes  through 
the  majesty  of  their  intellect.  The  career  of  Paine, — now  writing  his  bold 
book  in  darkness,  hunger  and  cold,  now  following  the  footsteps  of  Wanh- 
ington's  army,  striking  mortal  blows  with  his  pen,  into  the  very  heart  >f 
British  cruelty — has  led  us  into  the  vortex  of  the  French  Revolution,  Ifie 
glorious  and  bloody  child  of  our  own.  Through  the  cloud  of  that  fearful 
time,  we  have  endeavored  to  follow  the  track  of  light,  separating  its  rays 
from  the  dark  shadow  of  the  Guillotine,  and  beholding  its  omen  of  good, 
even  above  the  crimson  waves  of  the  Seine. 

Nor  have  we  faltered,  when  it  became  our  sad  task  to  witness  the  down 
fall  of  Thomas  Paine.  An  awful  lesson  is  conveyed  in  his  sad  history.  So 
bright  the  dawning  of  that  star,  so  dark  its  going  out  into  hopeless  night ! 
Now,  the  intimate  friend  of  Washington  and  the  other  heroes,  and  again,  a 
desolate  old  man,  withered  by  the  bigot's  breath,  and  dying — desolate,  O ! 
how  desolate  and  alone  ! 

It  becomes  our  task  now,  to  follow  four  of  the  Signers,  in  their  way 
through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.  We  have  not  space  nor  time 
to  picture  the  lives  of  all  the  signers  ;  from  among  the  host  of  heroes,  we 
will  select  but  four  immortal  names. 

From  the  death-chamber  of  Paine,  to  other  scenes  where  the  voice  of  the 
messenger  falls  on  the  freezing  ear,  and  his  cold  finger  seals  the  glassy 
eye. 

XVIII.— THE   LAST   DAY   OF  JEFFERSON   AND   ADAMS. 

Fifty  years  passed  away  :  the  Fourth  of  July,  1776  had  been  madu 
Immortal  by  its  Declaration;  .he  Fourth  of  July,  1826  was  to  be  forevei 
rendered  a  Holy  Day  by  the  hand  of  Death. 

On  that  serene  morning,  the  sun  rose  beautifully  upon  the  world,  shining 


450  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,  1776. 

upon  the  great  brotherhood  of  States,  extending  from  the  wilds  of  Maine 
to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  with  the  Atlantic  glittering  like  a  belt  of  waves  and 
beams  along  its  eastern  shore,  the  Mississippi  winding  four  thousand  miles 
through  its  western  border,  while  ruggedly  sublime,  the  Alleghanies  towered 
in  the  centre  of  the  land. 

The  same  sun,  fifty  years  before,  and  lighted  up  with  its  smile  of  good 
omen,  a  little  nation  of  Thirteen  provinces,  nestling  between  the  Alleghanies 
and  the  Atlantic,  and  fighting  even  for  that  space,  bounded  by  mountains 
and  waves,  with  the  greatest  and  bloodiest  power  in  the  world. 

The  battle  of  eight  years  had  been  fought ;  England  foiled  in  the  Revo 
lution,  had  been  humbled  in  the  dust  again  ;  fifty  years  had  passed  away ; 
the  thirteen  Provinces  of  this  bloody  Monarchy,  had  swelled  into  Twenty- 
Four  States  of  a  Free  People.  The  banner  that  had  waved  so  gloriously  in 
the  Revolution,  unveiling  its  Thirteen  stars  to  the  blood-red  glare  of  battle, 
now  fluttering  in  the  summer  morning  air,  from  Home  and  Church  and 
Council  Hall,  flashed  from  its  folds  the  blaze  of  Twenty-Four  stars,  joined 
in  one  Sun  of  Hope  and  Promise. 

The  wild  Eagle,  who  had  swooped  so  fiercely  on  the  British  host,  some 
fifty  years  ago,  now  sat  calmly  on  his  mountain  crag,  surveying  his  Banner, 
crimsoned  with  the  light  of  victory,  while  the  peaceful  land,  beautiful  with 
river  and  valley,  blossomed  on  every  side. 

It  was  the  Fourth  of  July,  1826.  From  little  villages,  came  joyous  bands 
— white-robed  virgins  and  sinless  children — scattering  flowers  by  the  way  ; 
in  the  deep  forests,  the  voice  of  praise  and  prayer  arose  to  God  ;  from  the 
Pulpit  the  preacher  spoke  ;  beside  the  old  cannon,  which  had  blazed  at 
Germantown,  stood  the  veteran  of  the  Revolution,  as  battered  as  the  cannon 
which  he  fired  ;  in  the  wide  cities  ten  thousand  hearts  throbbed  with  one 
common  joy :  and  the  flowers  that  were  scattered  by  the  way,  the  words 
that  the  Preacher  spoke,  and  the  hymn  that  the  forest  echoes  sent  to 
Heaven,  the  blaze  of  the  cannon  and  the  joy  of  the  wide  city,  all  had  one 
meaning  :  "  THIS  LAND  THAT  WAS  ONCE  THE  PROVINCE  OF  A  KING,  is  NOW 
THE  HOMESTEAD  OF  A  PEOPLE  !" 

And  yet,  even  while  the  hearts  of  fourteen  million  people  palpitated  with 
the  same  joy,  there  came  an  unseen  and  shadowy  Messenger,  who  touched 
two  brave  hearts  with  his  hand,  and  froze  them  -into  clay. 

Even  while  the  Jubilee  of  Freedom  rung  its  hosannas  from  every  wood 
and  hill,  Death  was  in  the  land.  Silently,  with  that  step  that  never  makes 
a  sound,  with  that  voice  which  speaks  the  language  of  eternity — and  which 
we  never  hear  translated  until  we  die — Death  glided  into  the  chambers  of 
two  heroes,  and  bade  them  Home  to  God  ! 

Almost  at  the  same  moment,  almost  within  the  compass  of  the  same  hour, 
two  hearts — that  once  warmed  with  the  passion  of  freedom,  the  frenzy  of 
eloquence — were  stopped  in  their  beatings  forever. 

We  will  go  to  the  room  of  old  age,  we  will  stand  beside  the  bed  of  death. 


THE  LAST    DAY    OF    JEFFERSON    AND   ADAMS.  451 

we  will  see  the  sunbeams  of  July  the  Fourth,  1826,  playing  over  the  clammf 
brows  of  the  Brother  Heroes. 

The  First  Home  ! 

Does  it  not  look  beautiful,  the  very  picture  of  rustic  comfort  and  unpre 
tending  wealth,  as  it  rises  yonder  on  the  soil  of  Massachusetts,  the  land  of 
Hancock  and  Warren,  that  mansion  with  many  windows,  a  porch  extending 
along  its  front,  fair  flowers  and  richly  foliaged  trees  blooming  from  its  hall- 
door  to  the  roadside  gate?  The  hour  is  very  still.'  It  is  near  high  noon. 
You  can  see  the  roof,  with  corniced  eaves  and  balustraded  summit  marked 
boldly  out,  against  the  deep  blue  summer  sky. 

While  the  thunder  of  cannon  is  in  our  ears,  we  will  pass  the  gate,  enter 
the  hall-door,  and  glide  softly  up  the  stairs.  Softly,  for  death  is  here,  in  this 
Home  of  Quincy. 

With  heads  bowed  low  and  stealthy  tread,  we  enter  the  darkened  room. 
The  sound  of  gasping  breath,  the  sob  of  manhood  in  its  agony,  the  wail  of 
women,  the  music  of  the  summer  air  among  the  leaves,  all  at  once  rush  on 
our  ears. 

We  enter — and  gaze — and  start  back,  awed  and  dumb. 

All  the  windows  of  this  room,  save  one,  are  dark.  Yonder  to  the  east, 
you  see  that  window,  its  white  curtains  flung  aside,  the  perfume  of  the 
garden  and  the  joy  of  the  sunshine  gushing  through  its  aperture,  into  the 
shadowy  Death-Chamber. 

Yonder  on  the  thickly  curtained  bed,  an  old  man  is  dying. 

Resting  against  the  pillow,  his  shrunken  form  lost  in  the  folds  of  the 
silken  coverlet,  he  awaits  the  hour  of  his  summons,  while  the  softened  sun 
light  plays  gently  on  his  brow  and  the  summer  breeze  plays  with  his  hair. 
That  brow  is  withered  into  wrinkles,  and  moistened  by  the  death-sweat, 
yet  as  you  gaze  it  lights  up  with  the  fire  of  fifty  years  ago,  and  the  lips 
move  and  the  unclosed  eye  blazes  as  though  the  heart  of  the  Hero  was 
back  again  with  the  Immortal  band  of  Signers. 

It  is  stout-hearted  John  Adams,  sinking  calmly  into  the  surges  of  death. 
Every  moment  the  waves  come  higher;  the  ice  of  the  grave  comes  slowly 
through  the  congealing  veins,  up  the  withered  limbs  ;  the  mist  of  death 
gathers  about  the  old  man's  eyes. 

At  this  moment,  while  all  is  still,  let  us  from  the  crowd  of  mute  specta 
tors,  select  a  single  form.  Beside  the  death  pillow,  on  which  his  right  hand 
rests,  gazing  in  his  father's  face,  his  own  noble  brow  bathed  in  a  solitary 
gleam  of  the  sun,  he  stands,  the  Son,  the  Statesman  and  President. 

Fifty  years  ago,  his  father,  in  the  State  House  of  Philadelphia,  uttered 
words  that  became  History  as  they  rung  from  his  indignant  lips,  and  now 
wielding  the  Presidential  Sceptre,  which  his  father  received  from  the  hand 
of  Washington,  the  Son  of  the  Hero  gazes  with  unspeakable  emotion,  in  the 
face  of  the  dying  old  man. 

Again  our  eyes  wander  from  the  faces  of  the  encircling  spectators,  to  the 


452  THE    FOURTH   OF   JUIA,  1776, 

visage  of  the  departing  hero.  So  withered  in  the  brow,  so  ghastly  pale,  so 
quivering  in  the  lips,  so  sunken  in  the  cheeks,  and  yet  for  all,  it  shines  as 
with  the  last  ray  of  its  closing  hour  ! 

Hark  !  The  thunder  of  cannon,  softened  by  distance,  comes  through  the 
window.  The  old  man  hears  it ;  at  once,  his  eye  fires,  he  trembles  up  in 
the  bed,  and  gazes  toward  the  light. 

"It  is  — "  his  dying  voice  rings  with  the  fire  of  fifty  years  ago — *«  It  is 
the  Fourth  of  July  !" 

That  old  man,  sitting  erect  in  his  death-couch,  his  ghastly  face  quivering 
into  youth  again,  may  well  furnish  a  picture  for  the  painter's  art.  Gaze 
upon  him  in  this  hour  of  his  weakness,  when  with  his  fingers  blue  with  the 
death-chill  and  his  brow  oozing  with  the  death-sweat,  he  starts  up,  and 
knows  the  voice  of  the  cannon,  and  answers  its  message — "  It  is,  it  is  the 
Fourth  of  July !"  Gaze  upon  that  wreck  of  a  body,  now  quivering  with 
the  soul  about  to  leave  it  forever,  quivering  and  glowing  into  youth  again* 
and  tell  me,  if  you  can  the  soul  is  not  immortal  ? 

It  was  a  sight  too  holy  for  tears  !  The  spectators — man  and  woman  and 
child, — feel  their  hearts  hushed  with  one  common  feeling,  admiration 
mingled  with  awe.  The  son  winds  his  arm  about  his  Father's  neck,  and 
whispers,  "  Fifty  years  to-day,  you  signed  the  Declaration,  which  made  us 
Free  !" 

How  the  Memory  of  the  old  time  rushes  upon  the  old  man's  hea:rt ! 
Fifty  years  ago — the  Hall  thronged  with  the  Signers — the  speech  that  rung 
from  his  lips,  when  his  Country's  destiny  hung  palpitating  on  his  words — 
the  eloquence  of  his  compatriots,  Jefferson  standing  in  the  foreground  of  a 
group  of  heroes,  Hancock  smiling  serenely  over  the  crowd,  in  front  of  the 
old  State  House  hall — it  rushed  upon  his  soul,  that  glorious  memory,  and 
made  him  live  again,  with  the  men  of  '76. 

Higher  rose  the  waves  of  death  !  Higher  mounted  the  ice  of  the  grave  ! 
Bluer  the  fingers,  damper  the  brow,  hollow  and  faint  the  rattling  voice ! 

The  old  man  sank  slowly  back  on  the  bed,  while  the  arm  of  his  son,  the 
President,  was  about  his  neck.  His  eyes  were  closed,  his  hands  placed  on 
his  breast.  He  was  sliding  gently,  almost  imperceptibly  into  Death.  The 
belt  of  sunlight  that  poured  through  the  window  over  the  floor,  moved  along 
the  carpet  like  the  shadow  of  a  dial  shortened,  and  was  gone.  Still  he 
lived  :  still  a  faint  fluttering  of  the  shrunken  chest,  showed  that  the  soul 
was  not  yet  gone  home. 

It  would  have  made  you  grow  in  love  with  death,  to  see  how  calmly  he 
died.  Just  as  the  shadows  of  the  trees  were  cast  far  over  the  meadow  by 
the  declining  sun,  just  as  the  shout  of  the  People,  the  thunder  of  cannon, 
.he  tone  of  the  orator  came  softened  on  the  breeze,  the  old  man  raised  his 
nead,  unclosed  his  eyes — 

44  Jefferson  yet  survives  /"  he  said,  and  the  wave  of  Death  reached  his 
iips,  and  he  breathed  no  more 


THE   LAST   DAY   OF  JEFFERSON   AND  ADAMS.  453 

It  was  four  o'clock  on  the  afternoon  of  July  4th,  1826,  when  John  Adams 
closed  his  life  of  glorious  deeds. 

"  Jefferson  yet  survives  !" 

While  the  words  of  the  venerable  Adams  yet  linger  in  our  ears,  let  us 
hasten  away  to  the  Second  Home,  where  Death  has  crossed  the  threshhold. 

Emerging  from  the  shadows  of  this  beautiful  valley  of  Virginia,  we  as 
cend  a  slight  elevation,  and  by  the  light  of  the  morning  sun,  behold  a  strange 
structure,  standing  amid  a  grove  of  forest  trees.  But  one  story  in  heighth, 
with  elegant  pillars  in  front,  and  a  dome  rising  above  its  roof,  it  strikes  you 
with  its  singular,  almost  oriental  style  of  Architecture,  and  yet  seems  the 
appropriate  Hermitage  of  Philosophy  and  Thought. 

That  structure,  relieved  by  the  background  of  towering  trees,  is  the  Home 
of  a  Hero.  Beneath  that  Grecian  portico,  the  Poets,  Artists  and  Philoso 
phers  of  the  old  world  have  often  passed,  eager  to  behold  the  Statesman  t-£ 
the  New  World,  the  author  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence. 

It  is  noonday  now  ;  the  summer  sun  streams  warmly  on  yonder  dome  ; 
the  leaves  are  scarcely  stirred  into  motion  by  the  faintest  breath  of  air. 
Uncovering  our  heads,  we  will  prepare  to  look  upon  Death,  and  with  oui 
hearts  subdued  in  awe,  we  will  enter  MONTICELLO. 

There  is  a  group  around  the  death-bed  in  yonder  room.  Every  eye  is 
centred  on  the  visage  of  a  dying  man  ;  the  beautiful  woman,  whom  you 
behold  standing  near  his  pillow,  her  eyes  eloquent  with  emotion,  is  hii 
beloved  child. 

As  he  rests  before  us,  on  the  bed  of  death,  the  centre  of  the  silent  groi  p, 
we  will  approach  and  look  upon  him.  A  man  of  tall  and  muscular  frame  ; 
his  face  denoting  in  every  marked  feature,  the  power  of  a  bold  and  fearless 
intellect,  his  lip  compressed  with  stern  determination,  his  blue  eye  flashing 
with  the  light  of  a  soul,  born  to  sway  the  masses  of  men,  by  the  magic  of 
Thought. 

As  we  approach,  he  looks  up  into  the  face  of  the  beautiful  woman,  and 
utters  these  memorable  words  : 

«» Let  no  inscription  be  placed  upon  my  tomb  but  this  :  Here  rests 
THOMAS  JEFFERSON,  THE  AUTHOR  OF  THE  DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE, 
A.ND  THE  FRIEND  OF  RELIGIOUS  FREEDOM." 

As  he  speaks,  he  describes  a  faint  gesture,  with  his  withered  right  hand. 
That  hand,  fifty  years  ago,  wrote  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  It  is 
feeble  and  withered  now  ;  time  was,  when  it  wrote  certain  words  that  sank 
into  the  heart  of  universal  man,  and  struck  the  shackles  from  ten  thousand 
hearts. 

Against  the  frauds  practised  by  priests  and  kings  from  immortal  time — 
against  the  tricks  of  courtiers,  the  malice  of  bigots,  the  falsehoods  of  time- 
servers  who  are  paid  to  be  religious,  hired  to  be  great — against  all  manner  of 
barbarity,  whether  done  by  a  New  Zealand  cannibal,  who  eats  the  wretch 
whom  he  has  butchered,  or  the  Spanish  Inquisition,  which  after  burning  its 


454  THE   FOURTH    OF   JULY,   1776. 

victims,  consigns  them  pleasantly  to  an  eternal  torture  after  death,  or  by 
John  Calvin,  who  calmly  beheld  the  skull  of  an  unoffending  man  crumble 
into  ashes,  and  then  wiped  his  bloody  hands  and  praised  his  God,  that  he 
was  such  a  holy  man — against  all  wrong,  worked  by  the  infamous  or  the 
weak  upon  Man  the  child  of  Divinity,  was  directed  the  eloquence  of  his 
Pen.  The  hand  that  once  wielded  that  pen  of  power,  is  now  chilled  with 
the  damps  of  doath  ! 

As  we  stand  gazing  upon  the  dying  man — held  enchained  by  the  majesty 
ef  that  intellect,  which  glows  brightly  over  the  ashy  face,  and  flashes  vividly 
in  the  clear  blue  eye — the  beautiful  woman  takes  the  icy  hands  within  her 
own,  and  kisses  the  cold  brow. 

The  hand  of  Death  is  on  him  now. 

"  Thank  God  that  I  have  lived  to  see  this  glorious  day !"  he  utters  in  a 
firm  voice  ;  and  then  raising  his  glazing  eyes,  he  gazes  in  his  daughter's 
face,  while  the  death-rattle  writes  in  his  throat — "  NUNC  DIMMITIS  DOMINE  !" 
were  the  last  words  of  Thomas  Jefferson. 

At  the  same  hour  of  noon,  when  the  fervid  sun  poured  straight  down  on 
the  dome  of  his  hermitage,  when  not  a  breath  of  air  ruffled  the  leaf  or 
stream,  when  in  the  midst  of  a  weeping  throng,  stood  his  beloved  daughter, 
placing  her  soft  lingers  on  his  glassy  eyeballs,  pressing  her  warm  mouth  to 
his  cold  lips,  died  Thomas  Jefferson,  the  author  of  the  Declaration  of  Inde 
pendence. 

He  died  some  four  hours  before  Adams  surrendered  his  soul.  When  the 
Patriot  of  Quincy  gasped  "  Jefferson  still  survives,"  the  soul  of  Jefferson 
was  already  before  his  God. 

It  would  have  been  deemed  a  wonderful  thing,  had  either  of  these  men 
died  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  just  half  a  century  after  the  day  of  1776. 

But  that  the  Brothers  in  the  work  of  freedom,  the  master  spirits  of  the 
Council,  who  stirred  up  men's  hearts  with  godlike  impulses,  and  moved 
their  arms  in  glorious  deeds,  in  the  dark  hour  of  Revolution,  should  have 
died  not  only  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  but  on  the  same  day,  within  a  few 
hours  of  each  other,  while  bodily  separated  by  hundreds  of  miles,  their  souls 
borne  to  Heaven  by  the  hymns  of  a  People,  freed  by  their  labors,  looks  to 
me  as  though  Almighty  God  had  sent  his  Messenger  and  called  his  Servants 
home,  thus  sanctifying  by  this  two-fold  death,  the  Fourth  of  July  forever- 
more. 

Tb«?y  met  before  the  Throne  of  God,  and  stood,  solemn  and  awful,  amid 
the  throng  of  heroes  clustered  there. 

Compare  the  death-beds  of  these  men,  with  the  closing  hour  of  their 
compeer  in  the  work  of  freedom,  THOMAS  PAINE  !  They  surrounded  by 
friends,  who  smiled  fondly  on  their  glazing  eyes ;  encircled  by  beautiful 
women,  who  pressed  their  warm  hands  to  \he  icy  brow,  and  kissed  the 


THE   NAMELESS   DEATH.  455 

freezing  lips  :  He,  utterly  desolate  and  alone,  with  no  friend,  save  one  aged 
Quaker ;  no  hope,  sa^e  that  which  dropped  from  the  envenomed  tongues 
of  the  Pharisees,  who  came  to  feast  their  eyes  with  his  death  struggles,  even 
as  savages  amuse  their  idle  hours  by  torturing  the  wretch  whom  they  pur 
pose  to  burn  to  death.  ft 

Pity  Thomas  Paine,  my  friends,  and  ask  yourselves  the  question — "  Tried 
by  the  same  kind  of  justice,  that  has  darkened  his  errors  into  sins  worse 
than  murder  or  incest,  and  converted  his  heroic  virtues  into  crimes,  what 
Would  become  of  Jefferson  and  Adams  ?" 

Imagine  the  biography  of  Jefferson  and  Adams,  written  by  one  of  those 
ignoble  wretches,  who  heaped  their  slanders  on  the  grave  of  Thomas  Paine  ! 

I  stand  upon  the  grave  of  this  deeply  wronged  hero,  and  ask  my  country 
men  to  do  him  justice  !  I  admit  his  errors,  and  pity  them,  for  the  sake  of 
his  substantial  virtues.  I  boldly  point  to  the  records  of  the  past  for  proof, 
when  I  state,  that  Thomas  Paine  was  the  co-worker  of  Jefferson  and  Adams, 
in  the  great  deed  of  Independence.  My  voice  may  fall  unheeded  now,  but 
one  hundred  years  hence,  the  name  of  the  Infidel  will  be  forgotten  in  the 
glory  of  the  Patriot,  THOMAS  PAINE. 

XVIII.— THE   NAMELESS  DEATH. 

THERE  is  another  of  the  Signers,  whose  death  I  would  like  to  picture,  but 
am  afraid. 

In  the  fearful  hour  of  the  Revolution,  when  our  army  was  without  arms, 
our  treasury  bankrupt,  this  Signer,  by  the  force  of  his  personal  character 
alone,  gave  muskets  swords  and  cannon  to  the  soldiers,  hundreds  of  thou 
sands  of  dollars  to  the  Continental  Congress.  He  was  the  life,  the  blood, 
the  veins  of  our  financial  world.  To  him  the  Congress  looked  for  aid,  to 
his  counting  house  Washington  turned  his  eyes,  in  his  direst  peril,  and  was 
not  denied.  The  dollars  of  this  Signer  fed  our  starving  soldiers  ;  his  per 
sonal  credit  gave  us  throughout  this  world,  that  which  is  worth  more  than 
gold — confidence. 

And  yet,  he  died — how  ?  Not  in  a  duel,  like  Button  Gwinett,  nor  sur 
rounded  by  the  peaceful  scenes  of  home,  like  Jefferson  and  Adams.  Nor 
did  he  meet  his  fate  in  battle.  But  he  died — 

I  am  ashamed,  afraid  to  tell  it. 

Not  two  hundred  yards  from  the  old  State  House,  there  rose  some  years 
ago,  an  edifice,  whose  walls  were  black,  whose  only  echoes  were  sobs  and 
groans,  whose  ornaments,  some  iron  manacles  and  a  stout  timber  gibbet.  It 
weemed  like  a  Curse  frozen  into  stone,  a  Pestilence  impersonified  in  bars 
and  bolts  and  black  walls.  In  the  Revolution,  while  the  British  held  the 
city,  this  edifice  rung  all  day  and  night,  with  the  horrible  cries  of  rebel  pris 
oners,  dying  the  death  of  dogs,  their  heart  eaten  up  by  a  Plague,  which 
had  been  created  by  the  filth  and  corruption  of  the  den.  After  the  Revo- 


456  THE  tOURTH   OF  JULY,  1776. 

lution,  the  place  made  hideous  by  a  thousand  murders,  was  the  residence 
of  thieves,  pirates,  assassins,  felons  of  every  grade.  Among  the  various 
groups  of  felons,  who  blasphemed  all  day  in  this  stone  Pandemonium,  there 
was  a  certain  class,  distinguished  from  the  others  by  their  silence,  their  pale 
faces  stamped  with  mental  agony,  their  evident  superiority  in  point  of  ap 
pearance  and  education. 

Some  of  this  latter  class  were  men,  some  were  women ;  torn  from  their 
homes  by  the  hands  of  brutes,  in  the  shape  of  officers  of  the  law,  they  were 
hurled  through  the  gates,  and  left  to  rot  in  the  company  of  the  robber,  the 
pirate,  the  murderer. 

This  class  of  felons  were  guilty  of  a  hideous  crime,  deserving  of  worse 
penalties  than  theft  or  murder. 

They  were  called  INSOLVENT  DEBTORS. 

To  me,  this  law  of  imprisonment  for  debt  has  ever  seemed  a  holy  thing, 
worthy  of  the  golden  age  of  New  Zealand,  when  burning  little  children  and 
innocent  women,  was  a  pleasant  pastime  for  the  jocular  cannibals.  It  is 
indeed  a  blessed  law,  worthy  of  the  blood  and  tears  which  were  shed  in  the 
Revolution  to  establish  our  liberties.  It  merely  converts  your  honest  m;m 
into  a  felon,  inviting  him  most  cordially  to  commit  robbery,  forgery  or  mur 
der,  for  these  things  are  not  punished  with  half  the  severity  that  visits  tfie 
head  of  your  Unfortunate  Debtor.  Your  forger  can  buy  his  Law — some 
times  his  Judge — your  Murderer  may  procure  a  pardon  from  a  merciful 
Governor,  but  what  mercy  is  there  for  the  wretch  who  owes  mono/,  which 
he  cannot  pay  ? 

In  order  more  effectually  to  demonstrate  the  beauty  of  this  law  as  it 
existed  some  thirty  years  ago,  in  all  its  purity,  let  me  beseech  you  to  look 
through  the  grated  windows  of  Walnut  street  gaol,  in  the  quiet  of  this  eve 
ning  hour. 

It  is  a  cell  that  we  behold ;  four  bare  walls,  a  chair  or  too,  a  miserable 
couch.  There  is  some  sunshine  here.  Yes,  the  evening  sun  shines  through 
the  grates,  on  the  floor  of  the  cell,  and  lights  up  the  sad  face  of  the  Mother 
who  with  her  children  bends  over  the  couch.  You  must  not  mind  theii 
tears  ;  you  must  laugh  at  their  sobs,  for  the  Husband,  the  Father,  who 
writhes  on  that  couch,  is  an  Insolvent  Debtor. 

He  was  once  a  man  of  noble  presence,  somewhat  tall  in  stature,  with  • 
frank,  ingenious  countenance,  deep  tranquil  eyes,  and  a  brow  that  bore  the 
marks  of  a  strong  intellect. 

Now,  the  mere  wreck  of  a  man — face,  form,  brow,  all  withered,  eyes 
dimmed,  and  jaw  fallen — he  quivers  on  the  couch  of  this  Walnut  street 
gaol. 

Why  this  change  ?  For  long  years,  pursued  by  honest  gentlemen,  with 
thin  lips,  pinched  faces,  eyes  bleared  with  the  lust  of  gain,  this  Man— for  he 
is  still  a  Man — has  went  through  all  the  tortures  with  which  poets,  in  their 
imaginary  hells,  afflict  the  damned.  They  have  hounded  him  in  the  streets 


THE    LAST    OF   THE   SIGNERS.  457 

in  the  church,  in  the  house,  yellinga  kind  of  bloodhound's  bay  all  the  while, 
ind  at  last  driven  him  into  the  gaol. 

He  is  there,  dying  ;  his  wife,  his  children  by  his  side.  The  curses  of 
pirates,  thieves,  pickpockets,  murderers,  echo  through  the  iron-banded 
door. 

Mother  !  Take  your  children  by  the  hand  ;  lead  them  to  the  window  ; 
bid  them  look  through  the  green  trees,  and  behold  yonder  steeple  glittering 
in  the  sun.  That  is  Independence  Hall. 

And  here,  on  the  debtor's  couch,  in  the  felon's  gaol,  lies  one  of  the 
Signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence.  Here,  dying  in  slow  agony, 
writhes  the  man  who  gave  arms  to  Washington,  money  to  Congress,  and 
by  his  resolute  energy,  saved  his  country  in  the  darkest  hour  of  peril. 

ROBERT  MORRIS  dying  in  a  felon's  gaol 

It  is  too  much  !  For  the  honor  of  our  country,  for  the  sake  of  that 
respect  which  honest  shame  and  honorable  poverty  claims  in  every  clime, 
among  all  men,  we  cannot  go  on. 

But  those  times,  when  Men  were  made  felons  by  the  holy  law  of  Im 
prisonment  for  Debt  have  passed  away.  The  law  exists  no  longer  in  any 
civilized  community.  It  is  true,  that  in  two  or  three  barbarous  despotisms 
— we  cannot  call  them  states — this  law  does  yet  remain  in  force,  but  this 
merely  leaves  us  to  infer,  that  the  majority  of  its  honest  citizens  are  felons, 
needing  infamous  enactments  to  keep  them  in  order. 

i«o  man  can  call  himself  an  American  citizen,  who  dwells  in  such  a 
community,  or  submits  to  such  a  despotism. 

What  beautiful  words  these  are  for  history,  to  be  read  in  connection  with 
each  other— ROBERT  MORRIS  !  A  FELON'S  GAOL  ! 

XX.— THE    LAST  OF   THE  SIGNERS. 

COME  to  the  window,  old  man  ! 

Come,  and  look  your  last  upon  this  beautiful  earth  !  The  day  is  dying  ; 
the  year  is  dying;  you  are  dying  ;  so  light  and  leaf  and  life,  mingle  in  one 
common  death,  as  they  shall  mingle  in  one  resurrection. 

Clad  in  a  dark  morning  gown,  that  revealed  the  outlines  of  his  tall  form, 
now  bent  with  age — once  so  beautiful  in  its  erect  manhood — he  rises  from 
his  chair,  which  is  covered  with  pillows,  and  totters  to  the  window,  spread 
ing  forth  his  thin  white  hands. 

Did  you  ever  see  an  old  man's  face,  that  combines  all  the  sweetness  of 
childhood,  with  the  vigor  of  matured  intellect  ?  Snow-white  hair  falling  in 
flakes  around  a  high  and  open  brow,  eyes  that  gleam  with  mild  clear  light 
a  mouth  moulded  in  an  expression  of  benignity  almost  divine  ? 

It  is  the  Fourteenth  of  November,  1832  ;  the  hour  is  sunset,  and  me  man 
Charles  Carroll  of  Carrolton,  THE  LAST  OF  THE  SIGNERS. 

Ninety-five  years  of  age,  a  weak  and  trembling  old  man,  he  has  sum 


458  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,    1776. 

moned  all  his  strength  and  gone  along  the  carpeted  chamber  to  the  window, 
his  dark  gown  contrasted  with  the  purple  curtains. 

He  is  the  last ! 

Of  the  noble  Fifty-Six,  who  in  the  Revolution  stood  forth,  undismayed 
by  the  axe  or  gibbet,  their  mission  the  freedom  of  an  age,  the  salvation  of  a 
country,  he  alone  remains  ! 

One  by  one  the  pillars  have  crumbled  from  the  roof  of  the  temple,  and 
now  the  last — a  trembling  column — glows  in  the  sunlight,  as  it  is  about  to  fall. 

But  for  the  pillar  that  crumbles  there  is  no  hope,  that  it  shall  ever  tower 
aloft  in  its  pride  again,  while  for  this  old  man  about  to  sink  in  the  night  of 
the  grave,  there  is  a  glorious  hope.  His  memory  will  live.  His  soul  will 
live,  not  only  in  the  presence  of  its  God,  but  on  the  tongues  and  in  the 
hearts  of  millions.  The  band  in  which  he  counts  one,  can  never  be 
forgotten.  The  last ! 

As  the  venerable  man  stands  before  us,  the  declining  day  imparts  a  warm 
flush  to  his  face,  and  surrounds  his  brow  with  a  halo  of  light.  His  lips 
move  without  a  sound  ;  he  is  recalling  the  scenes  of  the  Declaration,  he  is 
murmuring  the  names  of  his  brothers  in  the  good  work. 

All  gone  but  him  ! 

Upon  the  woods — dyed  with  the  rainbow  of  the  closing  year — upon  the 
stream,  darkened  by  masses  of  shadow,  upon  the  homes  peeping  out  from 
among  the  leaves,  falls  mellowing  the  last  light  of  the  declining  day. 

He  will  never  see  the  sun  rise  again. 

He  feels  that  the  silver  cord  is  slowly,  gently  loosening ;  he  knows  that 
the  golden  bowl  is  crumbling  at  the  fountain's  brink.  But  Death  comes  on 
him  as  a  sleep,  as  a  pleasant  dream,  as  a  kiss  from  beloved  lips  ! 

He  feels  that  the  land  of  his  birth  has  become  a  Mighty  People,  and 
thanks  God  that  he  was  permitted  to  behold  its  blossoms  of  hope,  ripen  into 
full  life. 

In  the  recess  near  the  window,  you  behold  an  altar  of  prayer  ;  above  it, 
glowing  in  the  fading  light,  the  Image  of  Jesus  seems  smiling  even  in 
agony,  around  that  death-chamber. 

The  old  man  turns  aside  from  the  window.  Tottering  on  he  kneels  be 
side  the  altar,  his  long  dark  robe  drooping  over  the  floor.  He  reaches  forth 
his  white  hands  ;  he  raises  his  eyes  to  the  face  of  the  Crucified. 

There  in  the  sanctity  of  an  old  man's  last  prayer,  we  will  leave  him. 
There  where  amid  the  deepening  shadows,  glows  the  Image  of  the  Saviour, 
there  where  the  light  falls  over  the  mild  face,  the  wavy  hair,  and  tranquil 
eyes  of  the  aged  patriarch. 

The  smile  of  the  Saviour  was  upon  the  Declaration  on  that  perilous  day, 
the  Fourth  of  July,  1776,  and  now  that  its  promise  has  brightened  into 
fruition,  HE  seems — he  does  smile  on  it  again — even  as  his  sculptured 
image  meets  the  dying  gaze  of  Charles  Carroll  of  Carrolton, 

THE    LAST    OF    THE    SIGNERS. 


THE  VIOLATOR  OF  THE  GRA  VE, 


A  SEQUEL  TO  THE  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  1776. 


(459) 


THE    VIOLATOR    OF    THE    GRAVE  431 

SEQUEL  TO  THE   FOURTH   OF  JULY,  1776. 

THE  VIOLATOR  OF  THE  GRAVE. 

AMONG  the  many  wretches  who  skulk  in  the  dens  of  a  large  city,  there 
is  one  whose  very  name  excites  a  sensation  of  overwhelming  disgust. 

It  is  not  the  Thief,  for  even  he  driven  mad  by  hunger  and  pilfering  a 
crust,  to  keep  life  in  him,  may  have  some  virtues.  Nor  is  it  the  Murderer, 
who  plunges  his  knife  from  a  dark  alley  into  the  back  of  the  wayfarer,  re 
turning  home  to  his  wife  and  children.  Nor  yet  the  Hangman,  who  for  a 
few  dollars,  puts  on  a  mask  of  crape,  mounts  a  gibbet,  and  chokes  a  human 
being  in  slow  agony  to  death,  all  in  the  name  of  the  Law.  Nor  is  it  the 
miserable  vagabond  of  the  large  city,  who  covered  with  rags  and  sores, 
sleeps  at  night  in  the  ditch,  picks  his  food  from  the  gutter's  filth,  and  is 
found  dead  some  morning  with  a  bottle  of  alcoholic  poison  beside  him,  and 
no  one,  not  even  a  dog,  to  claim  his  corse. 

The  Wretch  of  whom  we  speak,  must  in  point  of  ignominy  claim  prece 
dence  over  all  these,  Thief,  Murderer,  Hangman,  Vagabond.  He  goes  at 
dead  of  night,  into  the  silence  of  the  graveyard,  and  with  spade  and  axe  in 
hand,  roots  out  from  the  consecrated  earth  the  coffin  of  some  one,  fondly 
beloved — it  may  be  a  Father,  a  Sister,  a  Wife,  a  Mother — and  coolly 
splintering  the  lid  drags  forth  the  corse,  huddles  it  grotesquely  in  his 
sack,  and  sells  it  for  a  few  dollars. 

Polite  language  has  no  name  for  this  wretch,  who  like  a  fiendish  beast 
makes  a  meal  from  the  dead,  but  in  the  language  of  those  who  purchase  his 
wares,  he  is  called  a  BODY-SNATCHER. 

A  great  painter  once  maintained  a  learned  argument  in  favor  of  the 
strange  fancy,  that  every  human  face  bore  a  striking  resemblance  to  the  face 
of  some  animal.  I  am  not  disposed  to  affirm  the  truth  of  this  supposition, 
but  a  fancy  has  oftsn  arisen  in  my  mind,  that  for  every  depraved  wretch 
whom  we  find  skulking  in  rags  in  the  holes  of  a  large  city,  there  may  be 
found  another  wretch  precisely  similar,  in  the  fine  mansions,  and  beneath 
the  broadcloth  garments  of  the  wealthy  and  educated  classes. 

The  thief  who  shivering  in  rags  and  gnawed  with  hunger  rots  in  the 
ditch,  has  his  parallel  in  the  Thief  who  dressed  in  satin,  sits  perched  on  a 
banker's  desk,  robbing  widows  and  orphans  with  religious  deliberation.  So 
the  Hangman  who  chokes  to  death  for  a  few  dollars,  reminds  us  of  the 
Bribed  Judge,  who  for  his  price — say  a  thousand  dollars — will  sentence  to 
the  gallows  an  innocent  man,  or  set  free  the  murderer  of  a  mother. 

But  where  shall  we  find  the  fellow  of  the  grave-violator — the  BODY- 
SNATCHER  of  polite  life  ? 

Look  yonder,  my  dear  friend,  and  behold  a  magnificent  saloon  brilliantly 
lighted,  and  crowded  with  one  dense  mass  of  ladies  and  gentlemen,  who 
wear  rich  apparel  and  come  elegantly  in  carriages,  with  liveried  negroes. 


402  THE  FOURTH   OF  JULY,  M76. 

and  coats  of  arms,  and  all  other  indications  of  an  excessively  refined 
iristocracy. 

These  ladies  and  gentlemen  all  turn  their  eyes  to  one  point.  Behold  the 
point  of  interest  !  While  silks  rustle,  and  plumes  wave,  and  eye-glasses 
move  to  and  fro,  behold  under  the  glare  of  the  chandelier,  a  man  of  middle 
age,  clad  in  sober  black,  with  a  roll  of  paper  in  his  hand.  He  lays  the  roll 
of  paper  on  the  desk,  erected  in  the  centre  of  the  platform,  covered  with 
green  baize,  and  lifts  his  head. 

It  is  a  striking  face  !  The  hue  yellow,  its  texture  parchment,  the  eyes 
pale  grey,  the  lips  pinched  until  they  are  invisible,  the  whole  physiognomy 
reminding  you  of  a  skull,  dressed  up  for  a  Christmas  pantomime  by  the 
buffoon  of  a  circus. 

Who  is  this  individual  ?  Hark  !  He  speaks  in  a  soft  silvery  voice,  with 
a  gesture  that  reminds  you  of  a  hyena  prowling  round  the  fresh  mould  of  a 
new  made  grave. 

That  my  friends,  is  the  BODY-SNATCHER  of  polite  life.  He  does  not,  like 
his  brother,  the  grave-violator  of  the  hut,  steal  a  corse  and  sell  it  for  a  few 
dollars,  but  he  does  something  more.  He  takes  up  the  Memories  of  the 
Dead,  and  so  covers  them  with  his  venom,  that  History  can  no  more  re 
cognize  her  heroes,  than  you  can  the  corse  which  lies  mangled  on  the 
dissecting  table. 

This  Body-Snatcher  of  the  lecture  room  does  not  ravage  graveyards  ;  no  ! 
History  is  a  graveyard  to  him,  and  he  tears  souls  from  their  shrines,  and 
withers  hearts  into  dust.  He  would  be  very  indignant,  were  you  to  intro 
duce  him  to  his  brother,  the  Body-Snatcher  of  the  hut,  and  yet  the  grave 
yard  mould,  on  the  hands  of  the  ragged  wretch,  is  holy  in  the  sight  of 
Heaven,  compared  with  one  shred  of  the  apparel  worn  by  the  finely-dressed 
Body-Snatcher  of  the  lecture  room. 

Behold  him  as  he  stands  there,  before  his  aristocratic  audience,  in  his 
sober  black  apparel  and  skull-like  face  ;  listen  to  his  voice,  as  for  a  weary 
hour,  he  belabors  dead  men  with  libels,  calls  their  corses  —  Coward  !  and 
ets  his  base  soul  forth,  to  slander  among  the  graves  of  heroes. 

How  far  these  remarks  will  apply  to  a  recent  Reviewer  of  THOMAS 
PAINE,  we  will  leave  to  the  judgment  of  the  impartial  reader. 

This  Reviewer,  whom  it  is  not  necessary  to  name,  as  he  merely  forms 
one  in  the  large  class  of  lecturers  and  essayists  to  which  he  belongs,  deter 
mined  to  deliver  before  an  American  audience,  a  sketch  of  the  life,  writings, 
and  death  of  the  author  of  "  Common  Sense."  It  must  be  confessed,  that 
he  had  made  ample  preparations  for  the  task.  To  a  knowledge  of  the  law, 
he  had  added  an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the  arts  and  mysteries  of  bank 
ing,  and  all  the  ways  and  windings  of  the  science  of  politics.  The  com 
plete  statue  of  his  character,  moulded  from  the  bar,  the  bank,  and  the  bar- 
t  r&om,  shapen  of  the  most  incongrous  materials,  was  mellowed  and  refined 
by  a  warm  glow  of  morality.  This  was  what  made  it  so  charming  to  heai 


^ 


THE   V  OLATOR    OF   THE   GRAVE.  463 

the  lecturer  discourse  of  Thomas  Paine  ;  he  was  so  eminently  moral,  so 
financially  pure,  so  legally  just  and  politically  religious  ! 

As  he  rises  before  us,  with  his  green  bag  in  one  hand,  his  last  political 
letter  in  the  other,  let  us  hear  him  discourse  of  the  man  whom  Washington 
delighted  to  call  his  friend. 

He  observed  : 

*  That  to  dig  from  an  almost  forgotten  grave,  the  intellectual  character  of 
Thomas  Paine,  the  object  of  violent  obloquy  during  life,  and  of  contumely 
after  death,  might  not  be  without  its  uses.  It  might  be  done  now,  without 
offence,  without  injustice.  Many*a  teacher  of  pernicious  doctrine,  had  by 
the  purity  of  his  domestic  relations,  left  behind  him  a  sort  of  protective 
character. — There  were  surviving  relatives  and  friends,  or  those  who  knew 
surviving  relatives  and  friends,  who  disarmed  even  just  criticism,  and  stand 
ing  around  the  grave  claimed  pity  for  themselves  if  not  for  the  poor  inhabi 
tants  below. — ' 

This  is  beautiful,  considered  merely  as  a  classic  sentiment,  but  divine  as 
a  moral  apothegm.  Let  us  illustrate  its  force  by  an  exanple.  We  all 
know  that  there  were  other  Traitors  beside  Arnold  in  the  Revolution,  who 
escaped  disgrace  and  the  gallows,  made  money  by  chaffering  with  both 
parties,  and  died  in  the  odour  of  a  suspicious  sanctity,  leaving  a  dubious 
fame  to  their  children.  Suppose  I  was  to  go  forth  on  some  dark  night,  to 
the  grave  of  one  of  those  Traitors,  take  up  his  corse,  strip  from  it  the  mark 
of  patriotism,  and  show  it  by  the  light  of  history,  a  base  and  dishonored 
thing,  for  all  its  thick  coating  of  gold  ?  Would  not  this  be  perfectly  fair 
admirably  just  ?  Yes,  shrieks  a  Relative  of  the  Traitor,  who  stands  palsied 
and  trembling  on  the  brink  of  his  Ancestor's  grave,  '  It  is  fair,  it  is  just .' 
But  spare  the  traitor  for  the  sake  of  his  descendants  !  It  is  true,  he  bar- 
gained  with  both  parties,  it  is  true  he  heaped  up  gold  by  his  double  treason, 
it  is  true  that  these,  facts  are  written  down  by  men  who  never  lied,  and 
only  kept  in  the  shade  by  the  wealth  of  the  Traitor's  descendants,  but 
spare  him  for  the  sake  of  those  descendants  !  Spare  him  for  the  sake  of 
his  respectable  connections  !  Spare  him  for  the  sake  of  his  Gold!" 

And  I  would  spare  him.  Who  can  doubt  it  ?  The  lecturer  himself, 
with  all  his  serene  purity,  and  severe  love  of  morality,  would  deal  gently, 
very  gently  with  the  memory  of  a  Masked  Traitor,  who  died  wealthy  and 
left  a  dubious  glory  to  his  children. 

44  But — "  continues  our  gifted  friend,  "  Thomas  Paine  had  none  of  these. 
He  was  childless,  friendless.  Nor  was  there  a  human  being  in  this  wide 
world,  who  cared  a  jot  for  him  or  his  memory." 

Yes,  it  is  just !  Go  to  the  grave  of  this  childless,  friendless  man  ;  lift 
from  his  ashes  the  coffin  lid  ;  bring  forth  his  skull,  and  cover  it  with  the 
saliva  of  an  honest  lawyer's  indignation  !  He  has  no  gold  to  buy  immunity 
from  history  ;  no  friends  to  stand  beside  his  grave,  beseeching  pity  for  the 
poor  inhabitant  below.  '  The  Lion  is  dead,  and  a  dog  may  rend  him  now.' 

It  may  be  true,  eloquent  and  honest  Reviewer,  that  not  a  "  human  being 
in  the  wide  world  cares  a  jot  for  him  or  his  memory  now,"  but  there  was 


464  THE    FOURTH    OF   JULY,  1776. 

a  time,  when  Washington,  Jefferson,  Adams  called  him  friend,  arid  Benja 
mm  Rush  styled  him  the  forerunner  of  Jefferson,  in  the  great  work  of  Inde 
pendence.  These  men  after  a  fashion,  may  be  called  human  beings. 

But  what  estimate  do  you  place  on  the  phrase  *  human  being  .?'  Does  it 
mean,  in  your  way  of  thinking,  an  artful  pettifogger,  who  fattens  on  the 
frauds  of  banks,  and  grows  famous  in  the  annals  of  political  iniquity  ?  Then 
not  a  « human  being '  in  the  wide  world  cares  a  jot  for  Thomas  Paine  or 
his  memory.  For  Thomas  Paine,  with  all  his  errors,  ever  directed  the 
lightning  of  his  pen  against  such  human  beings. 

Or,  by  '  human  being,'  do  you  mean  a  man  who  gets  his  bread  by  honest 
toil,  and  scorns  to  bow  down  to  treason,  though  it  comes  masked  in  gold,  and 
refuses  to  reverence  a  Traitor's  blood,  though  it  has  been  diluted  in  the  veins 
of  some  half  dozen  generations  ? 

Ten  thousand  such  '  human  beings,'  scattered  through  this  Union,  at  this 
hour,  '  care  a  jot '  for  the  memory  of  Thomas  Paine.  Ten  thousand  noble 
hearts  pity  his  faults,  admire  his  virtues,  and  throb  with  the  strong  pulsa 
tions  of  scorn,  when  they  behold  his  skull  polluted  by  the  leper's  touch. 

The  lecturer,  in  his  career  about  the  grave  of  Paine,  exhibits  two  remark 
able  qualities  in  great  perfection,  critical  acumen  and  love  of  truth.  So  well 
does  he  love  truth,  that  he  dangles  at  her  heels  continually,  his  deep  passion» 
for  the  coy  beauty  filling  with  modest  blushes,  and  preventing  him  forever, 
from  any  actual  contact  with  her.  So  fine  is  the  temper  of  the  critical  steel 
which  he  wields,  that  even  while  he  is  supposed  to  be  flashing  it  before  your 
eyes,  you  cannot  see  it.  He  seems  indeed  to  have  made  an  art,  perfect  in 
all  its  parts,  of  avoiding  a  solemn  truth,  without  seeming  to  do  so,  and  criti 
cising  a  book  or  passage  into  nothing,  apparently  unconscious  of  the  maxim  : 
'*  It  is  a  base  thing  to  lie  at  all,  but  to  lie  like  truth,  or  lie  by  insinuation 
is  the  work  of  an  intellectual  assassin.11 

Our  Reviewer,  in  his  attempts  to  display  his  great  powers,  occasionally 
ris-.es  into  the  sublime,  or  at  all  events,  into  something  very  near  it,  the 
ridiculous  :  he  reminds  us  of  Paine's  remark  : 

"  The  sublime  of  the  critics,  like  some  parts  of  Edmund  Burke's  sublime 
and  beautiful,  is  like  a  wind-mill  just  visible  in  a  fog,  which  imagination 
might  distort  into  a  flying  mountain,  or  an  archangel,  or  a  flock  of  wild 
geese." 

Let  us  look  at  his  criticism  :  He  calls  "  Common  Sense"  a  diatribe 
against  king,  queens  and  prelates. 

There  is  a  great  deal  in  a  word.  It  would  not  do  for  our  lecturer  to  call 
this  book  a  vulgar  attack  against  kings,  queens  and  prelates,  for  he  is  weli 
aware,  that  its  most  violent  passages,  in  relation  to  these  holy  personages, 
are  copied,  word  for  word,  from  the  Book  of  God  ;  Samuel's  eloquent  ap 
peal  to  the  Hebrews,  against  the  monstrosites  of  monarchy,  being  quoted  m 
full.  But  he  calls  it  a  '  diatribe.1  Choice  word  !  Let  us  see  how  it  will 
look  in  another  connection.  '  The  Declaration  of  Independence  was  a 


THE    VIOLATOR    OF   THE    GRAVE.  465 

diatribe  against  King  George,'  or  *  Washington's  farewell  address  a  diatribe 
against  the  evils  of  party  spirit.'  There  is  about  as  much  vulgarity  in  either 
of  those  productions,  as  in  Paine's  Common  Sense  ;  the  word  '  diatribe ' 
would,  in  the  mouth  of  our  lecturer,  eminently  apply  to  them. 

Again,  with  a  gravity  as  commendable  as  that  of  the  Italian  friar,  who 
addressed  his  cap  as  Martin  Luther,  and  completely  vanquished  his  speech 
less  antagonist,  who  of  course,  did  not  utter  a  word  in  reply, — the  Reviewer 
of  Paine  observes  : 

"  Common  Sense — a  book  of  no  particular  merit,  owing  its  celebrity  and 
power  to  its  being  well-timed." 

Very  good.  Washingtons  attack  at  Trenton,  was  by  no  means,  such  a 
great  affair  as  Napoleon's  battle  of  Waterloo,  yet  still  it  had  one  merit — it 
was  well-timed.  Napoleon's  coming  back  from  Elba,  was  remarkably 
common-place,  but — well-timed.  Cortez  burning  his  ships,  did  a  very  tame 
thing,  imitated  from  Alexander  the  Great,  yet  withal  it  was  well-timed. 

That  Common  Sense  should  have  been  well-timed,  seems  a  small  thing 
in  our  reviewer's  eyes.  To  be  sure,  it  aroused  a  nation  into  Thought,  or 
rather,  gave  its  burning  thought  a  tongue  as  deep  and  tempestuous  as  the 
voice  of  thunder  ;  to  be  sure,  it  wrote  the  word  "  Independence"  in  ev<  ry 
heart,  by  one  bold  effort,  prepared  the  way  for  the  Declaration,  yet  still  it 
is  a  very  tame  affair  :  merely  "  well-timed." 

We  wish  we  could  say  as  much  of  our  lecturer's  production.  It  may  be 
as  powerful  as  a  speech  in  the  Criminal  Court,  adroit  as  a  banker's  specu 
lation,  impetuous  as  a  politician's  letter,  offering  to  bribe  voters,  by  whole 
counties,  yet  still  it  is  not  well-timed.  The  day  may  come  when  it  will 
merit  that  praise.  In  some  distant  golden  age,  when  the  temples  of  religion 
will  bear  the  inscription  *  To  lie  is  to  worship  God,'  and  the  only  capital 
offence,  punishable  with  death,  will  be  the  utterance  of  a  Truth,  and  then — 
but  not  till  then — this  Reviewer's  lecture  will  be  well-timed. 

Let  us  look  at  this  book  of  "  no  particular  merit :"  for  a  work  so  weak, 
this  is  a  somewhat  forcible  sentence. 

"  Government,  like  dress,  is  the  badge  of  lost  innocence  ;  the  palaces  ot 
kings  are  built  upon  the  ruins  of  the  bowers  of  paradise." 

Listen  to  Common  Sense  on  Monarchy  : 

"  For  monarchy  in  every  instance  is  the  Popery  of  government.  To  the 
evil  of  monarchy  we  have  added  that  of  hereditary  succession  ;  and  as  the 
first  is  a  degradation  and  lessening  of  ourselves,  so  the  second,  claimed  as  a 
matter  of  right,  is  an  insult  and  imposition  on  posterity.  For  all  men  being 
originally  equals,  no  one  by  birth,  could  have  a  right  to  set  up  his  own 
family,  in  perpetual  preference  to  all  others  for  ever,  and  though  himself 
might  deserve  some  decent  degree  of  honors  of  his  cotemporaries,  yet  his 
descendants  might  be  for  too  unworthy  to  inherit  them.  One  of  the  strongest 
natural  proofs  of  the  folly  01  ..ereditary  right  in  Kings,  is  that  nature  dis 
approves  it,  otherwise  she  would  not  so  frequently  turn  it  into  ridicule,  by 
giving  mankind  an  ^ss  for  a  Lion" 


466  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,  1776. 

Here  in  an  opinion  which  no  doubt  shocked  King  George,  and  our  elo 
quent  reviewer,  with  the  same  deep  horror  r 

*  Of  more  worth  is  one  honest  man  to  society,  and  in  the  sight  ot  God, 
»nan  all  the  crowned  ruffians  that  ever  lived." 

With  regard  to  the  oft-repeated  watch-word  of  American  admirers  of 
England — "  Great  Britain  is  the  Mother  country," — thus  speaks  Common 
Sense  • 

-  But  Britain  is  the  parent  country,  say  some.  Then  the  more  shame 
upon  her  conduct.  Even  brutes  do  not  devour  their  young,  nor  savages 
make  war  upon  their  families  ;  wherefore,  the  assertion,  if  true,  turns  to  her 
reproach  ;  but  it  happens  not  to  be  true,  or  only  partly  so,  and  the  phrase 
parent  or  mother  country  hath  been  jesuitically  adopted  by  the  king  and 
his  parasites,  with  a  low  papistical  design  of  gaining  an  unfair  bias  on  the 
credulous  weakness  of  our  minds.  Europe,  and  not  England,  is  the  parent 
country  of  America.  This  new  world  hath  been  the  asylum  for  the  perse 
cuted  lovers  of  civil  and  religious  liberty  from  every  part  of  Europe.  Hither 
have  they  fled,  not  from  the  tender  embraces,  but  from  the  cruelty  of  the 
monster;  and  it  is  so  far  true  of  England,  that  the  same  tyranny  which 
drove  the  first  emigrants  from  home,  pursues  their  descendants  still." 

Speaking  to  those  persons  who  still  advocated  a  reconciliation  with 
Enghmd  : 

**  But  if  you  say,  you  can  still  pass  the  violations  over,  then  I  ask,  hath 
your  house  been  burnt  ?  Hath  your  property  been  destroyed  before  your 
face  ?  Are  your  wife  and  children  destitute  of  a  bed  to  lie  on,  or  bread  to 
live  on  ?  Have  you  lost  a  parent  or  a  child  by  their  hands,  and  yourself 
the  ruined  and  wretched  survivor  ?  If  you  have  not,  then  are  you  not  a 
judge  of  those  who  have.  But  if  you  have,  and  can  still  shake  hands  with 
the  murderers,  then  are  you  unworthy  the  name  of  husband,  father,  friend, 
or  lover,  and  whatever  may  be  your  rank  or  title  in  life,  you  have  the  heart 
of  a  coward,  and  the  spirit  of  a  sycophant." 

Again : 

Ye  that  tell  us  of  harmony  and  reconciliation,  can  ye  restore  to  us  the 
time  that  is  past  ?  Can  ye  give  to  prostitution  its  former  innocence  ?  Neither 
can  ye  reconcile  Britain  and  America.  The  last  cord  now  is  broken,  the 
people  of  England  are  presenting  addresses  against  us.  There  are  injuries 
which  nature  cannot  forgive;  she  would  cease  to  be  nature  if  she  did.  As 
well  can  the  lover  forgive  the  ravisher  of  his  mistress,  as  the  continent  for 
give  the  murders  of  Britain.  The  Almighty  hath  implanted  in  us  these 
inextinguishable  feelings,  for  good  and  wise  purposes.  They  are  the  guar 
dians  of  his  image  in  our  hearts,  and  distinguish  us  from  the  herd  of  common 
animals.  The  social  compact  would  dissolve,  and  justice  be  extirpated 
from  the  earth,  or  have  only  a  casual  existence  were  we  callous  to  the 
touches  of  affection.  The  robber  and  the  murderer  would  often  escape  un 
punished,  did  not  the  injuries  which  our  tempers  sustain,  provoke  us  into 
justice. 

"  O  I  ye  that  love  mankind  !  Ye  that  dare  oppose,  not  only  the  tyranny, 
but  the  tyrant,  stand  forth  !  Every  spot  of  the  old  world  is  overrun  with 
oppression.  Freedom  hath  been  haunted  around  the  globe.  Asia,  and 
Africa,  have  long  expelled  her.  Europe  regards  her  like  a  stranger,  and 
England  hath  given  her  warning  to  depart.  O !  receive  the  fugitive,  and 
prepare  in  time  an  asylum  for  mankind  " 


THE  VIOLATOR  OF   THE   GRAVE.  467 

This  rude  author  of  Common  Sense  had  some  idea  of  our  resources; 
near  him  in  his  iron-handed  style  : 

"  In  almost  every  article  of  defence  we  abound.  Hemp  flouiishes  even  to 
rankness,  so  that  we  need  not  want  cordage.  Our  iron  is  superior  to  that 
of  other  countries.  Our  small  arms  equal  to  any  in  the  world.  Cannon 
we  can  cast  at  pleasure.  Saltpetre  and  gunpowder  we  are  every  day  pro 
ducing.  Our  knowledge  is  hourly  improving.  Resolution  is  our  inherent 
character,  and  courage  hath  never  yet  forsaken  us.  Therefore,  what  is  it 
we  want  ?  Why  is  it  that  we  hesitate  ?  From  Britain  we  can  expect 
nothing  but  ruin.  If  she  is  once  admitted  to  the  government  of  America 
again,  this  continent  will  not  be  worth  living  in.  Jealousies  will  he  always 
arising,  insurrections  will  be  constantly  happening  ;  and  who  will  go  forth 
to  quell  them  ?  Who  will  venture  his  life  to  reduce  to  own  countrymen  to 
a  foreign  obedience  ?  The  difference  between  Pennsylvania  and  Connecticut, 
respecting  some  unlocated  lands,  shows  the  insignificance  of  a  British  gov 
ernment,  and  fully  proves  that  nothing  but  continental  authority  can  regulate 
continental  matters." 

One  passage  more,  in  order  to  prove  the  puerility  of  the  work  : 
"  We  have  it  in  our  power  to  begin  the  world  over  again.  A  situation, 
similar  to  the  present,  hath  not  happened  since  the  days  of  Noah  until  now. 
The  birthday  of  a  new  world  is  at  hand,  and  a  race  of  men,  perhaps  as 
numerous  as  all  Europe  contains,  are  to  receive  their  portion  of  freedom 
from  the  events  of  a  few  months.  The  reflection  is  awful — and  in  this 
point  of  view,  how  trifling,  how  ridiculous,  do  the  little  paltry  cavilings,  of 
a  few  weak  or  interested  men  appear,  when  weighed  against  the  business 
of  a  world." 

Here  is  a  specimen  of  Paine's  advice  to  great  men.  It  was  originally 
applied  to  Sir  William  Howe,  but  will  eminently  suit  our  reviewer: 

"  But  how,  sir,  shall  we  dispose  of  you  ?  The  invention  of  a  statuary  ia 
exhausted,  and  Sir  William  is  yet  unprovided  with  a  monument.  America 
is  anxious  to  bestow  her  funeral  favors  upon  you,  and  wishes  to  do  it  in  a 
manner  that  shall  distinguish  you  from  all  the  deceased  heroes  of  the  last 
war.  The  Egyptian  method  of  embalming  is  not  known  to  the  present 
age,  and  hieroglyphical  pageantry  hath  outlived  the  science  of  decyphering 
it.  Some  other  method,  therefore,  must  be  thought  of  to  immortalize  tne 
new  knight  of  the  windmill  and  post.  Sir  William,  thanks  to  his  stars,  is 
not  oppressed  with  very  delicate  ideas.  He  has  no  ambition  of  being 
wrapped  up  and  handed  about  in  myrrh,  aloes  and  cassia.  Less  expensive 
odors  will  suffice  ;  and  it  fortunately  happens,  that  the  simple  genius  of 
America  hath  discovered  the  art  of  preserving  bociies,  and  embellishing  them 
too,  with  much  greater  frugality  than  the  ancients.  In  balinage,  sir,  of  hum 
ble  tar,  you  will  be  as  secure  as  Pharoah,  and  in  a  hieroglyphic  of  feathers, 
rival  in  finery  all  the  mummies  of  Egypt." 

Do  you  not  think  that  these  passages  indicate  a  work  of  some  particular 
merit? — The  Reviewer  continues  his  critical  excursion  in  this  style: 

"  He  next  wrote  the  "  Crisis,*'  a  series  of  papers,  sixteen  in  number  ;  and 
designed  as  popular  appeals.  They  bore  the  signature  of"  Common  Sense." 
The  first  words  of  the  first  number,  written  two  days  before  the  battle  of 
Trenton,  have  become  part  of  our  household  words  : — "  These  are  the 
times  that  try  men's  souls,"  Yet,  it  is  manifest  that  with  all  Paine's 
aptitude  at  coining  popular  phrases,  there  was  no  spring  of  true  eloquence 


468  THE   FOURTH    OF   JULY,  1776. 

in  him.  And  when  he  wrote  under  immediate  and  outward  pressure,  and 
without  an  opportunity  of  revision  and  slow  elaboration,  no  matter  how 
great  the  occasion  or  intense  the  excitement — he  wrote  feebly  and  impo- 
tently.  The  fourth  paper  dated  the  day  after  the  battle  of  Brandy  wine  is 
given  as  an  instance." 

These  remarks  made  in  the  face  of  day,  in  the  Nineteenth  Century,  can 
only  be  answered  with  a  sentence  of  Thomas  Paine  :  "There  is  dignity  in 
the  warm  passions  of  a  whig,  which  is  never  to  be  found  in  the  cold  malice 
of  a  Tory.  In  the  one  nature  is  only  heated — in  the  other  she  is 
poisoned." 

We  must  admit  that  the  lecturer  has  the  best  right  to  think  meanly  of 
Paine,  for  as  we  see  by  this  sentence,  Paine  had  but  an  inferior  opinion  of 
the  party  to  which  our  critical  friend  appertains. 

You  will  perceive  that  he  gives  this  short  article,  published  the  day  after 
the  batfle  of  the  Brandy  wine,  as  an  instance  of  impotence  in  style. 

This  impotent  essay,  written  in  the  fear  of  British  occupation  amid  the 
palpitations  of  popular  panic,  comprises  this  weak  line  : 

"  We  fight  not  to  enslave,  but  to  set  a  country  free,  and  to  make  room 
upon  the  earth  for  honest  men  to  live  in." 

— "  There  was  no  spring  of  true  eloquence  in  him  !"  Pity  poor  Tom 
Paine  !  The  fountain  of  his  thoughts  did  not  flow  from  the  marble  portals 
of  a  bank — chartered  to  rob  by  wholesale — nor  from  the  miasmatic  corri 
dors  of  a  Criminal  Court.  "  There  was  no  spring  of  true  eloquence  in 
him  !"  Weep  for  Tom  Paine  !  Had  he  but  wielded  a  green  bag,  and 
written  letters  on  the  eve  of  a  popular  election,  kindly  offering  to  pay  for  a 
handsome  majority,  there  might  have  been  a  spring  of  true  eloquence  in  his 
breast,  but  as  the  case  stands  in  history,  he  was  but  an  Author  and  Poor ! 

Our  rich,  and  of  course  virtuous  reviewer,  thus  disposes  of  a  work  which 
Washington  and  La  Fayette  did  not  hesitate  to  honor  with  their  names  on 
the  dedication  page : 

"  It  was  not  long  before  he  began  to  write  again  ;  and  in  rapid  succession, 
a  batch  of  revolutionary  pamphlets  were  published.  Among  them  was  the 
*•  Rights  of  Man,"  in  reply  to  Mr.  Burke's  "  Reflections  ;"  and  though  the 
reader  of  the  present  dav  may  smile  at  the  contrast,  it  is  idle  to  deny  that 
Paine  made  an  impression  in  Great  Britain.  His  grotesque  and  often 
vigorous  phrases  told  on  the  excited  mind  of  the  populace. 

"  A  batch  of  revolutionary  pamphlets  !"  Singular  felicity  of  phrase  ! 
Take  all  the  addresses  issued  by  Conventions  in  1775,  all  the  papers 
penned  by  Jefferson  or  Henry,  all  the  eloquent  appeals  impressed  with  the 
power  of  Adams  or  the  weight  of  Washington's  name,  and  you  have  not  a 
selection  of  the  noblest  gems  of  patriotism  and  literature,  but  a — *  batch  of 
revolutionary  pamphlets  !' 

Our  lecturer's  morality  and  patriotism  all  must  admire.  To  slander  the 
childless  dead  is  no  sin.  To  write  Common  Sense,  and  awake  a  Nation 
mto  ?  sense  of  their  rights,  is  merely  to  pen  *  a  diatribe  To  defend  the 


THE    VIOLATOR    OF    THE    GRAVE.  459 

rights  of  man  against  the  elegant  sycophant  of  royalty,  Edmund  Burke,  who 
thought  the  carcass  of  monarchy  was  beautiful  because  he  flung  flowers 
upon  its  festering  pollution,  and  concealed  the  worms  upon  its  brow  with 
the  mushroom  blossoms  of  metaphor,  is  not  to  do  a  noble  deed,  but  simply 
to  write  one  of  a — *•  batch  of  revolutionary  pamphlets." 

But  it  seems  the  fellow's"  grotesque  and  vigorous  phrases  told  on  the  ex 
cited  mind  of  the  populace."  Yes  :  so  the  grotesque  and  vigorous  phrases 
of  Samuel  Adams  told  on  the  excited  mind  of  the  populace,  who  in  Boston 
Harbor  disguised  as  Indians,  drowned  a  cargo  of  British  tea. 

Here  is  one  of  the  grotesque  and  vigorous  phrases  of  Thomas  Paine, 
selected  at  random  from  the  Rights  of  Man : 

"  If  systems  of  government  can  be  introduced  less  expensive,  and  more 
productive  of  general  happiness,  than  those  which  have  existed,  all  attempts 
to  oppose  their  progress  will  in  the  end  prove  fruitless.  Reason,  like  time, 
will  make  its  own  way,  and  prejudice  will  fall  in  the  combat  with  interest. 
If  universal  peace,  harmony,  civilization  and  commerce  are  ever  to  be  the 
happy  lot  of  man,  it  cannot  be  accomplished  but  by  a  revolution  in  the 
present  system  of  governments.  All  the  monarchical  governments  are 
military.  War  is  their  trade,  plunder  and  revenue  their  objects.  While 
such  governments  continue,  peace  has  not  the  absolute  security  of  a  day. 
What  is  the  history  of  all  monarchical  governments  but  a  disgustful  picture 
of  human  wretchedness,  and  the  accidental  respite  of  a  few  years  repose  ? 
Wearied  with  war,  and  tired  of  human  butchery,  they  sat  down  to  rest  and 
called  it  peace.  This  certainly  is  not  the  condition  that  heaven  intended 
for  man  ;  and  if  this  ^e  monarchy,  well  might  monarchy  be  reckoned  among 
the  sins  of  the  Jews 

Doubtless  the  reader  of  the  present  day,  will  smile  at  the  contrast  bo- 
tween  Mr.  Burke's  reflections  and  Thomas  Paine's  Rights  of  Man.  Burke 
was  an  elegant  gentleman  in  a  court  dress,  with  a  nosegay  in  his  button 
hole.  Paine  but  a  man,  with  the  garb  of  a  freeman  upon  his  form.  Burke 
with  his  pretty  figures  and  dainty  words,  wept  for  the  French  King  and 
cried  his  eyes  out  of  their  sockets  for  Marie  Antoinette.  Paine  the  vulgar 
fellow,  reserved  his  tears  for  the  hundred  millions  of  France,  who  had  been 
ground  into  powder  by  this  king  and  his  predecessors  in  iniquity,  for  the 
women,  the  poor  women  of  that  enslaved  land,  who  for  ages  had  been 
made  the  tool  of  a  tyrant's  lust  or  the  victims  of  his  power.  Burke  reminds 
us  of  a  spectator  of  a  barbarous  murder,  who  instead  of  defending  the  pros 
trate  woman  from  the  knife  of  the  assassin,  coolly  takes  paper  and  pencil 
from  his  pocket  and  begins  a  sketch  of  the  scene,  exclaiming  as  the  blood 
streams  from  the  victim's  throat — "  What  a  striking  picture  !"  Paine  is 
merely  an  honest  member  of  the  "  populace,"  for  while  Burke  makes  his 
picture,  he  springs  at  the  murderer's  throat,  and  rescues  the  bleeding  woman 
from  his  knife. 

Meanwhile  our  lecturer  stands  quietly  by,  and  'smiles  at  ihe  contrast- 
between  the  elegant  Burke  and  the  vulgar  Paine. 

We  might  crowd  oui  pages  with  illustrations  of  Thomas  Paine's  power 


470  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,  1776. 

We  might  suffer  him  to  speak  for  himself,  in  his  clear-thoughted,  iron- 
tongued  style.  And  yet  whole  pages, .extracted  from  his  works,  stamped 
with  genius  and  glittering  with  beauties,  bear  no  more  comparison  to  the 
full  volume  of  his  intellect,  than  a  drop  to  the  ocean,  or — to  use  an  imper 
fect  comparison — than  the  instinctive  malignity  of  a  hyena,  to  the  cold 
blooded  malice  of  our  Reviewer. 

They  have  been  more  read,  more  quoted,  more  copied,  than  any  political 
papers  ever  written.  We  hazard  nothing,  when  we  state,  that  our  ablest 
statesmen,  for  the  last  fifty  years,  have  freely  used  the  pages  of  Paine,  in 
their  best  papers,  in  some  instances  without  a  word  of  credit.  Such  phrases 
as  "These  are  the  times  that  try  men's  souls,"  have  become  republican 
scripture  in  every  American  heart. 

You  will  be  surprised,  reader,  after  perusing  these  passages,  at  the  hardi 
hood  of  our  lecturer,  who  with  all  his  love  of  truth,  prepers  Burke  to  Pair.e, 
King  George  to  Washington,  the  'applause  of  an  aristocratic  audience  to  the 
good  opinion  of  the  populace. 

You  will  be  somewhat  indignant  withal ;  while  the  strong  throb  of  honest 
anger, — if  the  bite  of  a  reptile  can  excite  anger — swells  your  bosom,  you 
will  be  induced  to  ask  this  Reviewer — « Could  you  not  be  a  man  for  once 
in  your  life  ?  Scorned  by  the  living,  could  you  not  leave  the  dead  alone  ? 
Were  there  not  other  graves  to  desecrate,  other  skulls  on  which  to  vent 
your  venom.  Nay  !  Why,  in  your  ferocious  appetite  for  dead  men's 
bones,  you  did  not  dis-inter  a  Traitor  of  the  Revolution,  who  has  come 
down  to  our  time,  baptised  in  a  miserable  glory  ?' 

But  these  words  would  have  been  lost  on  the  Violator  of  the  Grave.  He 
wished  to  build  a  character  for  religion  and  morality.  Paine  was  the  author 
of  a  deistical  work  ;  Paine  died  childless.  The  Grave-Violator  beheld  this 
glorious  opportunity  !  He  could  abuse  the  deistical  author,  and  slander  the 
childless  dead  !  His  reputation  as  a  defender  of  religion  would  be  estab 
lished  ;  he,  the  coiner  of  falsehoods  as  base  as  a  Malay's  steel,  would  be 
quoted  as  a — Christian  ! 

Christianity  was  to  be  indebted  for  a  character  to  him,  who  in  sober 
charity,  had  none  to  spare. 

But  he  overshot  his  mark.  While  he  dealt  a  just  rebuke  to  the  Infidel, 
he  should  have  spared  the  Patriot.  While  he  took  the  last  years  of  Paine's 
life,  and  held  them  up  to  the  laughter  of  the  cold  and  heartless  crowd,  he 
should  have  stepped  lightly  over  his  Revolutionary  career.  For  in  the  sound 
of  his  voice,  there  was  an  old  man,  who  remembered  Thomas  Paine,  writing 
his  Crisis,  in  1776,  and  tracking  his  bloody  footsteps  in  the  snow,  while  a 
certain  officer  of  the  Continental  army,  was  basely  bargaining  with  the 
enemy  and  hungering  to  be  bought. 

While  he  struck  his  coward's  blow  upon  the  dead  man's  skull,  he  should 
have  heard  the  whisper  of  prudence — "  Take  care  !  There  are  other  dead 
than  Thomas  Paine  !  There  are  other  traitors  than  Benedict  Arnold  !" 


THE   VIOLATOR   OF  THE   GRAVE.  471 

As  a  specimen  of  our  Reviewer's  love  of  truth,  we  need  only  make  a 
reference  10  the  passage  of  his  lecture,  in  which  he  states,  that  Paine,  in 
Paris,  4  voted  for  the  abolition  of  Royalty,  and  the  trial  of  the  King  ' 
This  is  all  he  tells  us.  He  does  not  say  how  he  voted  on  the  trial  of  the 
King ;  that  would  not  serve  his  purpose.  He  merely  "  voted."  He  may 
have  voted  life  !  or  death  !  but  the  lecturer  dares  not  condescend  to  say  a 
word.  His  object  is  to  leave  thef  impression  on  your  mind,  that  Paine  voted 
for  the  execution  of  the  Monarch,  when  the  fact  is  notorious,  that  he  nobly 
defended  Louis  from  the  penalty  of  death,  and  in  the  most  lowering  hour  of 
the  Convention,  pointed  to  the  United  States  as  an  asylum  for  guilty  Royalty. 

Which  is  most  contemptible,  the  bold  utterance,  or  the  snake-like  insinu 
ation  of  a  Lie  ?  The  bite  of  the  bull-dog,  or  the  hiss  of  the  viper  ? 

The  hatred  which  the  lecturer  bears  to  Paine,  does  not  even  cease  wiih 
his  death.  Listen — 

"  About  ten  years  after  Paine's  death,  Cobbettmade  a  pilgrimage  to  New 
Rochelle,  disinterred  the  mouldering  bones,  and  removed  them  to  Great 
Britain.  It  was  a  piece  of  independent  and  ineffectual  mockery.  The 
bones  of  the  scoffer  were  looked  on  by  such  of  the  British  people  as  knfw 
any  thing  about  them,  with  no  more  regard  than  the  anatomical  student 
bestowed  on  the  unknown  carcass  before  /«'m." 

I  do  not  know  your  opinion,  but  were  I  to  meet  the  wretch  who  wrote 
the  italicized  sentence,  on  a  dark  night,  by  the  lonely  roadside,  I  would  at 
once  look  for  the  knife  or  pistols  in  his  hands,  and  prepare  to  defend  my 
ife  from  the  attack  of  an  assassin. 

"  The  unknown  carcass"  had  once  embodied  a  soul  which  Washington 
recognized  in  words  like  these  : 

Rocky-Hill,  Sept.,  10th,  1783. 

I  have  learned  since  I  have  been  at  this  place,  that  you  are  at  Borden 
town.  Whether  for  the  sake  of  retirement  or  economy,  I  know  not.  Be 
it  for  either,  for  both,  or  whatever  it  may,  if  you  will  come  to  this  place,, 
and  partake  with  me,  I  shall  be  exceedingly  happy  to  see  you. 

Your  presence  may  remind  congress  of  your  past  services  to  this  coun 
try  ;  and  if  it  is  in  my  power  to  impress  them,  command  my  best  exertions 
with  freedom,  as  they  will  be  rendered  cheerfully  by  one,  who  entertains  a 
lively  sense  of  the  importance  of  your  works,  and  who,  with  much  pleasure, 
subscribes  himself,  Your  sincere  friend, 

G.  WASHINGTON. 

If  it  were  possible  at  this  late  day,  to  recover  the  skeletons  of  Judas 
Iscariot  and  Benedict  Arnold,  much  as  I  despise  these  melancholy  examples 
of  human  frailty,  I  would  not  insult  even  their  bones,  by  placing  the 
*'  carcass"  of  this  Reviewer  in  their  company. 

The  wretch  who  can  thus  insult  the  dead,  is  not  worthy  of  a  resting 
place,  even  among  traitors.  Did  I  believe  the  Pythagorean  doctrine  of 
transmigration  of  souls,  I  would  know  where  to  look  for  the  soul  of  this 
Reviewer,  after  death.  There  is  an  animal  that  fattens  on  corses :  it  ii 
called  the  hyena. 


472  THE   FOURTH   OF   JULY,   1776. 

But  our  task  is  done.  We  have  gone  through  the  nauseous  falsehoods, 
the  vulgar  spite,  the  brutal  malignity  of  this  man,  and  felt  inclined  in  hif 
case,  to  reverse  our  religious  creed  and  believe  in  Total  Depravity.  He 
cannot  claim  from  me,  nor  from  any  human  being,  the  slightest  pity.  He  has 
violated  the  grave  of  the  dead,  and  must  not  complain,  if  his  own  life  is 
made  the  subject  of  scathing  analysis.  Will  it  bear  the  light?.  All  the 
talent  ever  possessed  by  himself,  or  anything  of  his  name,  bolstered  by 
wealth  and  puffed  by  pedantry,  would  not  be  sufficient  to  create  one  line, 
worthy  of  Thomas  Paine. 

By  this  time,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  that  the  lecturer,  and  others  of  the  same 
class,  will  have  learned  that  Thomas  Paine  is  not  altogether  friendless.  It 
is  not  a  safe  thing  to  attack  his  Patriot  Name.  The  man  who  consents 
to  do  the  work  of  a  grave  violator,  must  not  expect  favor  from  the  People. 
His  only  support  will  prove,  only  a  broken  and  rotten  reed.  At  all  events,  the 
person  who  makes  the  attack,  must  look  to  his  own  life,  and  expect  to  be 
treated  in  the  same  manner  as  he  treats  the  dead.  Stand  forth,  calumniator  ! 
Will  you  submit  your  life  to  this  scrutiny  ?  You  dare  not.  You  can  bluster 
over  dead  men's  graves,  but  you  fear  the  living.  Yes,  you  are  afraid  of 
Light,  of  History,  of  the  Past :  well  you  know  why  ;  too  well !  Behold 
the  man  of  courage  !  He  only  attacks  childless  dead  men  ! 

But  Thomas  Paine  is  not  childless.  He  left  behind  him  Common  Sense, 
the  Crisis  and  the  Rights  of  Man ;  children  that  can  never  die,  but  will 
outlive  all  Traitors  and  descendants,  to  the  end  of  time. 


BOOK  SIXTH. 

ROMANCE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


(473) 


30 


ROMANCE  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 


MICHAEL   XXX, 

I.— A  TRADITION  OF  THE  TWO  WORLDS. 

ONJS  dark  and  stormy  night,  in  the  year  1793,  a  soldier  was  returning 
home — 

Home — after  the  toil  and  bloodshed  of  many  a  well-fought  battle  ;  home 
— to  receive  his  father's  blessing — Home,  to  feel  the  kiss  of  his  bride  upou 
his  lips  ;  home,  for  the  second  time  in  fourteen  long  years  ! 

It  was  where  the  winding  road  looked  forth  upon  the  broad  bosom  of  the 
Chesapeake,  that  we  first  behold  him. 

On  the  summit  of  a  dark  grey  rock,  which  arose  above  the  gloomy 
waves,  he  reined  his  steed.  All  was  dark  above — the  canopy  of  heaven, 
one  vast  and  funeral  pall,  on  which  the  lightning  ever  and  anon,  wrote  its 
fearful  hieroglyph- — below,  the  waves  rolled  heavily  against  the  shore,  their 
deep  murmur  mingling  with  the  thunder-peal. 

The  same  lightning  flash  that  traced  its  strange  characters  upon  the  pall 
of  a  darkened  universe,  revealed  the  face  and  form  of  the  warrior,  every 
point  and  outline  of  his  war-steed. 

For  a  moment,  and  a  moment  only,  that  lurid  light  rushed  over  the 
waves  and  sky,  and  then  all  was  night  and  chaos  again. 

Let  us  look  upon  the  warrior  by  the  glare  of  that  lightning  flash. 

A  man  of  some  thirty  years  ;  his  form  massive  in  the  chest,  broad  in  the 
shoulders,  enveloped  in  a  blue  hunting  frock  faced  with  fur.  From  his  right 
shoulder  a  heavy  cloak  falls  in  thick  folds  over  the  form  of  his  steed. 

At  this  moment  he  lifts  the  trooper  cap  from  his  brow.  Bathed  in  the 
lightning  glare  you  behold  that  high,  straight  forehead,  shadowed  by  a  mass 
of  short  thick  curls,  and  lighted  by  the  soul  of  his  large  grey  eyes.  The 
broad  cheek  bones,  fair  complexion,  darkened  into  a  swarthy  brown,  by  the 
toil  of  fourteen  long  years,  firm  lips,  and  square  chin,  all  indicate  a  bold  and 
chivalrous  nature. 

His  grey  eye  lights  up  with  wild  rapture,  as  he  gazes  far  beyond  upon 
the  Chesapeake,  its  surface  now  dark  as  ink,  and  now  ruffled  into  one 
while  sheet  of  foam.  And  the  noble  horse  which  bears  his  form,  with  his 
•now-white  flanks  seared  with  the  marks  of  many  a  battle-scar,  arches  his 

(475) 


476  ROMANCE    OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

neck,  tosses  his  head  aloft,  and  with  quivering  nostrils  and  glaring  eye 
aeems  to  share  the  fiery  contest  of  the  elements. 

It  is  an  impressive  picture  which  we  behold  ;  the  white  horse  and  hi« 
rider,  drawn  by  the  lightning  glare  on  the  canvass  of  a  darkened  sky. 

The  rain  beats  against  the  warrior's  brow,  it  turns  to  hail,  and  scatters  its 
pearls  upon  the  snowy  mane  of  his  steed,  among  his  thickly  clustered  locks, 
yet  still  he  sits  uncovered  there. 

The  gleaming  eye  and  heaving  chest,  betoken  a  soul  absorbed  in  mem 
ories  of  the  past. 

Yes,  he  is  thinking  of  fourteen  long  years  of  absence  from  home,  years 
spent  in  the  charge  of  battle,  or  the  terror  of  the  forlorn  hope,  or  far  away 
in  the  wild  woods,  where  the  tomahawk  gleams  through  the  green  leave* 
of  old  forest  trees. 

He  speaks  to  his  horse,  and  calls  him  by  name. 

"  OLD  LEGION  !" 

The  horse  quivers,  starts,  as  with  a  thrill  of  delight,  and  utters  a  long  and 
piercing  neigh. 

He  knows  that  name. 

He  has  heard  it  in  many  a  bloody  fight ;  yes,  swelling  with  the  roar  of 
Brandywine,  echoing  from  the  mists  of  Germantown,  whispered  amid  the 
thunders  of  Monmouth  ;  that  name  has  ever  been  to  the  brave  white  horse, 
the  signal-note  of  battle. 

Fourteen  years  ago,  on  this  very  rock,  a  boy  of  sixteen  with  long  curling 
hair,  and  a  beardless  cheek,  reined  in  the  noble  white  horse  which  he  rode, 
and  while  the  moonlight  poured  over  his  brow,  gave  one  last  look  at  his 
childhood's  home,  and  then  went  forth  to  battle. 

That  white  horse  has  now  grown  old.  The  marks  of  Germantown  and 
Valley  Forge,  and  Camden,  are  written  in  every  scar  that  darkens  over 
his  snowy  hide.  The  boy  has  sprung  into  hardy  manhood  ;  beard  on  his 
chin,  scars  on  his  form,  the  light  of  resolution  in  his  full  grey  eye,  a  sword 
of  iron  in  its  iron  sheath,  hanging  by  his  side. 

Only  a  single  year  ago  the  white  horse  and  his  rider  halted  for  a  moment 
on  the  summit  of  this  rock,  a  mild  summer  breeze  tossing  the  mane  of  the 
steed,  and  playing  with  the  warrior's  curls.  Then  he  had  just  bidden  fare 
well  to  his  betrothed,  her  kiss  was  yet  fresh  upon  his  lips.  On  his  way  to 
the  Indian  wars,  he  resolved  to  return  after  the  fight  was  over,  and  wed  his 
intended  bride. 

One  year  had  passed  since  he  beheld  her,  one  year  of  peril  far  away 
among  the  Alleghanies,  or  in  the  wood-bound  meadows  of  the  Miami. 

Now  covered  with  scars,  his  name  known  as  the  bravest  among  the 
brave,  he  was  returning — HOME. 

"  Old  Legion  !"  the  souldier  speaks  to  his  steed,  and  in  a  moment  you 
see  the  gallant  war-horse — who  is  named  in  memory  of  the  Legion,  com- 


A    TRADITION    OF   THE   TWO    WORLDS.  477 

rnanded  by  the  Partizan  Lee — spring  with  a  sudden  bound  from  the  rock, 
and  disappear  in  the  shadows  of  the  inland  road. 

Seven  miles  away  from  the  Chesapeake,  and  the  soldier  would  stand 
upon  the  threshhold  of  his  home. 

Seven  miles  of  a  winding  road,  that  now  plunged  into  the  shadows  of 
thick  woods,  now  crossed  some  quiet  brook,  surmounted  by  a  rude  bridge, 
now  ascended  yonder  steep  hill,  with  rocks  crowned  by  cedars,  darkening 
on  either  side.  Then  came  a  long  and  level  track  with  open  fields,  varied 
by  the  tortuous  "  Virginia  fence,"  stretching  away  on  either  side. 

While  the  rain  freezing  into  hail,  dashed  against  his  brow,  our  soldier 
spoke  cheerily  to  his  steed,  and  trees,  and  rocks,  and  fields,  passed  rapidly 
behind  him. 

He  was  thinking  of  home — of  that  beautiful  girl — Alice  ! 

Ah,  how  the  memory  of  her  form  came  smiling  to  his  soul,  through  the 
darkness,  and  hail,  and  rain  of  that  stormy  night.  Look  where  he  might, 
he  saw  her — yes,  even  as  he  left  her  one  year  ago.  In  the  dark  rocks 
among  the  sombre  pines,  on  the  pall  of  the  sky,  or  among  the  shadows  of 
the  wood — look  where  he  might — her  image  was  there. 

And  this  was  the  picture  that  memory  with  a  free,  joyous  hand,  and 
colors  gathered  from  the  rainbow — Hope — sketched  on  the  canvass  of  the 
past. 

A  young  girl,  standing  on  the  rustic  porch  of  her  home,  at  dead  of  night 
— her  form  blooming  from  girlhood  into  woman — enveloped  in  the  loose 
folds  of  a  white  gown — while  her  bared  arm  holds  the  light  above  her  head. 
The  downward  rays  impart  a  mild  and  softened  glow  to  her  face.  Saw 
you  ever  hair  so  dark,  so  glossy  as  that  which  the  white  'kerchief  lightly 
binds  ?  Eyes,  so  large  and  dark,  so  delicately  fringed  with  long  tremulous 
lashes,  as  these  which  now  gleam  through  the  darkness  of  the  night  ?  Lips 
so  red  and  moist  ?  A  cheek  so  rounded  and  peach-like  in  its  bloom  ?  A 
form — neither  majestic  in  its  stature,  nor  queenly  in  its  walk — but  warm  in 
its  hues,  swelling  in  its  outlines,  lovable  in  its  virgin  freshness. 

So  rose  the  picture  of  his  betrothed,  to  the  imagination  of  the  soldier 
So  he  beheld  her  one  year  ago — even  now,  closing  his  eyes  in  a  waking 
dream,  which  the  thunder  cannot  dispel,  he  seems  to  hear  her  parting 
words : 

**  Good  bye,  Michael  !  Come  back  from  the  wars  ;  O,  come  back  soon 
— may  God  grant  it !  Then,  Michael,  as  I  have  pledged  a  woman's  truth 
to  you,  we  will  be  married  !" 

A  tear  starts  from  the  soldier's  eye-lid.  He  has  seen  men  fall  in  battle, 
their  skulls  crushed  by  the  horses'  hoofs,  and  never  wept.  They  were  his 
friends,  his  comrades,  but  his  eye  was  tearless. — This  game  of  war  hardens 
the  heart  into  iron. 

But  now,  as  the  thought  of  his  young  and  loving  bride  steals  mildly  over 
iiis  soul,  he  feels  the  tear-drop  in  his  eye. 


478  ROMANCE   OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

Dashing  through  the  swollen  waters  of  a  brook,  Michael  the  soldier, 
begins  to  ascend  the  last  hill.  Look — as  it  darkens  above  him,  look  upon 
its  summit,  by  the  lightning  glare.  You  behold  a  group  of  oak  trees — three 
rugged,  ancient  forms — standing  on  the  sod  near  the  summit  of  the  hill,  their 
branches  spreading  magnificently  into  the  sky. 

By  the  lightning  flash  Michael  beholds  the  oaks,  and  knows  that  his 
home  is  near.  For  looking  from  the  foot  of  these  old  trees,  you  may  behold 
that  home. 

How  his  heart  throbs,  as  Old  Legion  dashes  up  the  hill ! 

In  order  to  conceal  his  agitation,  he  talks  aloud  to  his  war-horse.  Smile 
at  the  hardy  soldier  if  you  will,  but  ere  you  sneer,  learn  something  of  thai 
strange  companionship  which  binds  the  warrior  and  his  steed  together. 
Even  as  the  sunburnt  sailor  talks  to  the  good  old  ship  which  bears  him, 
even  as  the  hollow  eye-d  student  talks  to  the  well-used  volumes,  which  have 
been  Love  and  Home  to  him,  in  many  an  hour  of  poverty  and  scorn,  so 
talks  the  soldier  of  Lee's  Legion  to  his  gallant  horse. 

"  Soh — Old  Legion  !  We've  had  many  a  tough  time  together,  but  soon 
all  our  trials  will  be  past !  Many  a  tough  time,  old  boy — d'ye  remember 
Germantown  ?  How  we  came  charging  down  upon  them,  before  the  break 
of  day  ? 

"  Or  Monmouth — that  awful  day — when  the  sun  killed  ten,  where  the 
bayonet  and  cannon-ball  only  killed  one  ? 

"  Or  Camden,  where  we  fled  like  whipped  dogs  ?  But  I  led  the  forlorn 
hope,  in  the  attack  of  Paulus  Hook,  on  foot — without  you — my  Old 
Legion  ? 

*  Or  d'ye  remember  the  fights  among  the  Injins  ?  Mad  Anthony  Wayne 
leading  the  charge,  right  into  the  thickest  of  the  red-skins  ?  Many  a  battle 
mi.ny  a  fight  by  day,  and  fray  by  night,  we've  had  together,  Old  Legion — 
we've  shared  the  last  crust — slept  on  the  same  hard  ground — haven't  we 
old  boy  ?  And  now  we're  going  home — home  to  rest  and  quietness  !  I'll 
settle  down,  beneath  the  roof  of  the  old  homestead  ;  and  as  for  you — there's 
the  broad  meadow  for  you  to  ramble  by  day,  and  the  clean  straw  for  your 
bed  by  night !  I  should  like  to  see  the  man  that  would  dare  harness  you 
to  a  plough,  my  brave  old  war-horse — no  !  no  !  No  one  shall  ever  mount 
your  back  but  your  old  master,  or" — and  a  grim  smile  lighted  the  young 
soldier's  face — »*  or,  perhaps — Alice  !" 

As  he  spoke — the  rain  beating  beneath  the  steel  front  of  his  cap,  all  the 
while — he  attained  the  summit  of  the  hill.  All  was  very  dark  around,  all 
was  like  a  pall  above,  yet  there — stretching  far  to  the  north,  over  a  dimly 
defined  field — the  soldier  beheld  a  long  straight  line  of  locust  trees,  their 
green  leaves  crowned  with  snowy  blossoms.  Those  trees,  whose  fragrance 
imbued  the  blast  which  rushed  against  the  soldier's  brow,  the  very  raic 
which  fell  upon  his  cheek — those  glorious  trees,  so  luxuriant  in  foliage  ajid 
perfume — overarched  the  lane  which  led  to — Home  ! 


A  TRADITION   OF   THE   TWO    WORLDS.  479 

That  home  he  could  not  see,  for  all  was  dark  as  chaos — but  yonder  from 
nver  the  level  field,  afar,  there  came  a  single  quivering  ray  of  light. 

By  that  light — it  was  the  fireside  light  of  home — his  father  watched,  and 
Alice — Ah  !  she  was  there,  toiling  over  some  task  of  home,  her  thoughts 
fixed  upon  her  absent  lover.  For  Alice,  you  will  understand  me,  was  that 
most  to  be  pitied  of  all  human  creatures — an  orphan  child.  She  had  been 
reared  in  the  homestead  of  the  Meadows ;  reared  and  protected  from  ten- 
derest  childhood  by  the  old  man,  even  Michael's  father. 

How  the  thought  that  SHE  was  waiting  for  him,  stirred  the  fire-coals  a* 
the  soldier's  heart ! 

Leaning  from  his  steed,  Michael  the  Soldier  of  Lee's  Legion,  unfastened 
the  rustic  gate  which  divided  the  lane  from  the  road,  and  in  a  moment — Do 
you  hear  the  sound  of  the  horse's  hoofs  under  the  locust  trees  ? 

Ah,  that  fragrance  from  the  snowy  flowers,  how  it  speaks  Home  ! 

Near  and  nearer  he  drew.  Now  he  sees  the  wicket  fence,  that  surrounds 
the  old  brick  mansion — now,  the  tall  poplars  that  stand  about  it,  like  grim 
sentinels — and  now  !  There  is  a  thunder  peal  shaking  the  very  earth,  a 
lightning  flash  illumining  the  universe,  and  then  the  clouds  roll  back,  and  as 
a  maiden  from  her  lattice,  so  looks  forth  the  moon  from  her  window  in 
the  sky. 

There  it  lies,  in  the  calm  clear  light  of  the  moon.  A  mansion  of  dark 
brick,  surrounded  by  a  wicket  fence  painted  white,  with  straight  poplars  en 
circling  it  on  every  side. 

A  whispered  word  to  his  horse,  and  the  soldier  dashes  on  ! 

He  reaches  the  wicket  fence,  flings  the  rein  on  the  neck  of  his  steed, 
clears  the  palings  at  a  bound,  approaches  yonder  narrow,  old-fashioned 
window,  and  looks  in 

An  old  man,  in  a  farmer's  dress,  with  sunburnt  face  and  white  hair,  siti 
alone,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  oaken  table,  his  cheek  upon  his  hand.  Near 
nim  the  candle,  flinging  its  beams  over  the  withered  face  of  the  old  man, 
around  the  rustic  furniture  of  the  uncarpeted  room. 

The  old  man  is  alone.  Alice  is  not  there.  Michael  the  soldier,  gazes 
long  and  earnestly,  and  gasps  for  breath.  For,  in  one  brief  year,  his  father 
sunk  into  extreme  old  age — his  grey  eyes,  dim  with  moisture,  his  hair, 
which  was  grey,  has  taken  the  color  of  snow,  his  mouth  wrinkled  and 
fallen  in. 

Michael  felt  a  dim,  vague,  yet  horrible  foreboding  cross  his  heart. 

Not  daring  to  cross  the  threshhold,  he  gazed  fora  moment  upon  a  window 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  door.  The  shutters  were  closed,  but  it  was  her 
room,  the  chamber  of  Alice.  See  slept  there — ah  !  He  laughed  at  his  fears, 
smiled  that  horrible  foreboding  to  scorn.  She  slept  there,  dreaming  of  him, 
her  lover,  husband.  He  placed  his  finger  on  the  latch,  his  foot  upon  the 
threshhold. 

At  this  moment  he  felt  a  hand  press  his  own,  a  knotted,  toil-hardened 


480  ROMANCE   OF    THE   REVOLUTION. 

hand.  He  turned  and  beheld  the  form  of  a  Negro,  clad  in  coarse  home 
spun  ;  it  was  one  of  his  father's  slaves ;  his  own  favorite  servant,  who  had 
carried  him  in  his  brawny  arms  when  but  a  child,  thirty  years  ago. 

"  De  Lor  bress  you,  Masa  Mikel !  Dis  ole  nigga  am  so  glad  you  am 
come  home  !" 

A  rude  greeting,  but  sincere.  Michael  wrung  the  negro's  hand,  and  ut 
tered  a  question  with  gasping  breath : 

"  Alice — she  is  well  ?     Alice,  I  say — do  you  hear  Tony — she  is  well  ?" 

In  very  common,  but  very  expressive  parlance — which  I  hope  your  critic 
will  pick  to  pieces  with  his  claw,  even  as  an  aged  but  eccentric  hen  picks 
chaff  from  wheat — the  old  slave  showed  the  whites  of  his  eyes. 

••  Eh — ah  !"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  true  African  chuckle — "  Do  Massa 
Mikel  ax  de  old  nigga, «  Miss  Alice  well  ?'  Lor !  Ef  you  had  only  see, 
yisserday,  singin'  on  dis  berry  porch,  like  a  robin  in  a  locus'  tree  !" 

Michael  did  not  pause  to  utter  a  word,  but  dashed  his  hand  against  the 
latch,  and  crossed  the  threshhold  of  home. 

At  the  same  moment  the  old  negro  leaned  his  arms  upon  the  banisters 
of  the  porch,  bowed  his  head,  and  wept  aloud. 

K  was  for  joy.  No  doubt.  Yes,  with  the  true  feeling  of  one  of  those 
faithful  African  hearts,  which  share  in  every  joy  and  sorrow  of  the  master, 
as  though  it  were  their  own,  the  negro  wept  for  joy. 

Meanwhile,  Michael  rushed  forward,  and  flung  his  arms  about  the  old 
man's  neck. 

"  Father,  I  am  come  home !  Home  for  good— -home  for  life  !  You 
know,  some  fourteen  years  ago,  I  left  this  place  a  boy,  I  came  back  a  man, 
a  Soldier  !  A  year  ago,  I  left  you  for  my  last'  campaign — it  is  over — we've 
beat  the  Injins — and  now  I'm  goin'  to  live  and  die  by  your  side  !" 

The  old  man  looked  up,  and  met  the  joyous  glance  of  those  large  grey 
eyes,  surveyed  the  high,  straight  forehead,  and  the  muscular  form,  and  then 
silently  gathered  the  hands  of  his  boy  within  his  own. 

"  God  bless  you,  Michael !"  he  said,  in  a  clear,  deep  voice,  yet  with  a 
strong  German  accent. 

"  But  what's  the  matter,  father  ?  You  don't  seem  well — ain't  you  glad 
to  see  me  ?  Look  here — I've  brought  this  old  sword  home  as  a  present  for 
you.  Not  very  handsome,  you'll  say,  but  each  of  those  dents  has  a  story 
of  its  own  to  tell.  You  see  that  deep  notch  ?  That  was  made  by  the  cap 
of  a  Britisher,  at  Paulus  Hook,  and  this* — but  God  bless  me  !  Father,  you 

are  sick — you " 

The  old  man  turned  his  eyes  away,  and  pressed  with  a  silent  intensity 
the  hands  of  his  son. 

"  Sit  down  Michael,  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

Michael  slid   into  a  huge   oaken   arm  chair ;  it  was  placed  before  the 
hearth,  and  opposite  a  dark-panelled  door,   which    opened  into  the 
chamber — the  chamber  of  Alice 


A   TRADITION    OF    THE    TWO    WORLDS.  431 

The  old  man  was  silent.  His  head  had  sunken  on  his  breast  :  his  handf 
relaxed  their  grasp. 

Michael  gazed  upon  him  with  a  vague  look  of  surprise,  and  then  his  eyes 
wandered  to  the  dark-panelled  door. 

"  She  is  asleep,  Father  ? — Shall  I  go  to  the  door  and  call  her,  or  will  you  ? 
Ah,  the  good  girl  will  be  so  glad  to  see  me  !" 

Still  the  old  man  made  no  answer. 

"  Ah  !  I  see  how  it  is — he's  not  well — glad  to  see  me,  to  be  sure,  but  old 
age  creeps  on  him."  Thus  murmuring,  Michael  sprang  to  his  feet,  seizeu 
the  light,  and  advanced  to  the  dark-panelled  door.  "  You  see,  father,  I'll  go 
myself.  It  will  be  such  a  surprise  to  her  !  I'll  steal  softly  to  her  bed-side, 
Dend  over  her  pillow— ha !  ha  !  The  first  news  she  will  have  of  my  return, 
will  be  my  kiss  upon  her  lips  !" 

He  placed  his  fingers  on  the  latch. 

The  old  man  raised  his  head,  beheld  him,  and  started  to  his  feet.  With 
trembling  steps,  he  reached  the  side  of  his  son. 

**  My  son,"  he  cried,  invoking  the  awful  name  of  God, "  do  not  enter 
that  room  !" 

You  can  see  Michael  start,  his  chivalrous  face  expanding  with  surprise, 
while  the  light  in  his  hand  /alls  over  the  wrinkled  features  of  his  father. 
Those  features  wear  an  expression  so  utterly  sad,  woe-begone,  horror-strick 
en,  that  Michael  recoils  as  though  a  death-bullet  had  pierced  his  heart.  His 
hand,  as  if  palsied,  shrinks  from  the  latch  of  the  door. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  pause  like  death.  You  can  hear  the  crackling 
of  the  slight  fire  on  the  hearth — the  hard  breathing  of  the  old  man — but  all 
beside  is  terribly  still. 

'*  Father,  what  mean  you  ?  I  tell  you,  I  can  face  the  bloodiest  charge  of 
bayonets  that  ever  mowed  a  battlefield  of  its  living  men,  but  this — I  know 
not  what  to  call  it — this  silence,  this  mystery,  it  chills,  yes,  it  frightens,  me  !" 

Still  the  old  man  breathed  in  hollow  tones,  marked  with  a  deep  guttural 
accent,  the  name  of  God,  and  whispered — 

"  My  son,  do  not  enter  that  room  !" 

"  But  it  is  the  room  of  Alice.  She  is  to  be  my  wife  to-morrow — no  !  she 
is  my  wife,  plighted  and  sworn,  at  this  hour  !  It  is  the  room  of  Alice" 

The  voice  sunk  to  a  whisper,  at  once  deep  and  pathetic,  as  he  spoke  the 
last  words. 

"  Come,  Michael,  sit  by  me  ;  when  I  have  a  little  more  strength,  I  will 
tell  you  all." 

The  old  man  motioned  with  his  right  hand,  toward  a  seat,  but  Michael 
stood  beside  the  dark-panelled  door,  his  sun-burnt  face  grown  suddenly  pale 
as  a  shroud. 

At  last,  with  measured  footsteps,  he  approached  the  door,  grasped  the 
fetch,  and  pushed  it  open.  The  light  was  in  his  hand.  Her  room  lay  open 
to  his  gaze,  the  chamber  of  Alice,  yet  he  was  afraid  to — look. 


482  ROMANCE   OF    THE    REVOLUTION. 

Do  you  see  him  standing  on  the  threshhold,  the  light  extended  in  one  hand, 
while  the  other  supports  his  bowed  head,  and  veils  his  eyes  ? 

"  Father,"  he  groaned,  "  her  room  is  before  me,  but  I  cannot  look — I 
stand  upon  the  threshhold,  but  dare  not  cross  it.  Speak" — and  he  turned 
wildly  toward  the  old  man — "  Speak  !  I  implore  ye — tell  me  the  worst !" 

The  old  man  stood  in  the  shadows,  his  hands  clasped,  his  eyes  wild  and 
glassy  in  their  vacant  stare,  fixed  upon  the  face  of  his  son.  No  word  passed 
his  lips  ;  the  horror  painted  on  his  countenance  seemed  too  horrible  for 
words. 

Michael  raised  his  eyes  and  looked. 

It  was  there — the  same  as  in  the  olden  time — that  chamber  in  which  his 
mother  had  once  slept — now  the  Chamber  of  Alice. 

Behold  a  small  room,  with  the  clean  oaken  floor,  covered  by  a  homespun 
carpet ;  two  or  three  high-backed  chairs,  placed  against  the  white-washed 
walls  ;  a  solitary  window  with  a  deep  frame  and  snowy  curtain. 

Holding  the  light  above  his  head,  Michael  advanced.  In  the  corner, 
opposite  the  door,  stood  a  bed,  encircled  by  hangings  of  plain  white— thcvse 
hangings  carefully  closed,  descending  in  easy  folds  to  the  floor. 

The  fearful  truth  all  at  once  rushed  upon  the  soldier's  soul.  She  was 
dead.  Her  body  enveloped  in  the  shroud,  lay  within  those  hangings ;  he 
could  see  the  white  hands,  frozen  into  the  semblance  of  marble,  folded  stiffly 
over  her  pulseless  bosom.  He  could  see  her  face, — so  pale  and  yet  so 
beautiful,  even  in  death,  and  the  closed  eyelids,  the  lashes  darkening  softly 
over  the  cheek,  the  hair  so  glossy  in  its  raven  blackness,  descending  gently 
along  the  neck,  even  to  the  virgin  breast. 

The  curtains  of  the  bed  were  closed,  but  he  could  see  it  all  ! 

Afraid  to  look,  and  by  a  look  confirm  his  fancy,  he  turned  aside  from  the 
bed,  and  gazed  toward  the  window.  Here  his  heart  was  wrung  by  another 
sight.  A  plain,  old-fashioned  bureau,  covered  with  a  white  cloth,  and  sur 
mounted  by  a  small  mirror  oval  in  form,  and  framed  in  dark  walnut. 

That  mirror  had  reflected  her  face,  only  a  day  past.  Beside  lay  the 
Bible  and  Book  of  Prayer,  each  bearing  on  their  covers  the  name  of  ALICE 
— sacred  memorials  of  the  Dead  Girl. 

This  man  Michael  was  no  puling  courtier.  A  rude  heart,  an  unlettered 
soul  was  his.  His  embrowned  hand  had  grasped  the  hand  of  death  a  thou 
sand  times.  Yet  that  rude  heart  was  softened  by  one  deep  feeling — that 
unlettered  soul,  which  had  read  its  lessons  of  genius  in  the  Book  of  Battle, 
written  by  an  avalanche  of  swords  and  bayonets,  on  the  dark  cloud  of  the 
battlefield — bowed  down  and  worshipped  one  emotion.  His  love  for  Alice  ! 
Next  to  his  belief  in  an  all-paternal  God,  he  treasured  it.  Therefore,  when 
he  beheld  these  memorials  of  the  Dead  Girl,  he  felt  his  heart  contract,  ex 
pand,  writhe,  within  him.  His  iron  limbs  trembled  ;  he  tottered,  he  fell 
forward  on  his  kness,  his  face  resting  among  the  curtains  of  the  bed. 


A  TRADITION    OF   THE   TWO    WORLDS.  483 

He  dashed  the  curtains  aside — holding  the  light  in  his  quivering  hand 
ae  gazed  upon  the  secret  of  the  bed — the  dead  body  of  Alice  ?  No  ! 

The  white  pillow,  unruffled  by  the  pressure  of  a  ringer — the  white  cov 
erlet,  smooth  as  a  bank  of  drifted  snow,  lay  before  him. 

Alice  was  not  there. 

"  Father  !"  he  groaned,  starting  to  his  feet,  and  grasping  the  old  man  by 
both  hands — u  She  is  dead  ;  I  know  it !  Where  have  you  buried  her  ?" 

The  father  turned  his  eyes  from  the  face  of  his  son,  but  made  no  answer. 

"  At  least,  give  me  some  token  to  remember  her  !  The  bracelet  which 
was  my  mother's — which  a  year  ago,  I  myself  clasped  on  the  wrist  of 
Alice  !" 

Then  it  was  that  the  old  man  turned,  and  with  a  look  that  never  forsook 
the  soul  of  his  son  until  his  death  hour,  gasped  four  brief  words  : 

"  Xot  dead,  but — LOST  !"  he  said,  and  turned  his  face  away. 

Michael  heard  the  voice,  saw  the  expression  of  his  father's  face,  snd  felt 
the  reality  of  his  desolation  without  another  word.  He  could  not  speak  ; 
there  was  a  choking  sensation  in  his  throat,  a  coldness  like  death,  about 
his  heart. 

In  a  moment  the  old  man  turned  again,  and  in  his  native  German,  pouiod 
forth  the  story  of  Alice — her  broken  vows,  and  flight,  and  shame  ! 

"  Only  this  day  she  fled,  and  with  a  stranger  !" 

The  son  never  asked  a  question  more  of  his  father. 

One  silent  grasp  of  the  old  man's  hand,  and  he  strode  with  measured 
steps,  from  the  room,  from  the  house.  Not  once  did  he  look  back. 

He  stood  upon  the  porch — the  light  of  the  moon  falling  upon  his  face, 
with  every  lineament  tightened  like  a  cord  of  iron — the  eyes  cold  and  glassy, 
the  lips  clenched  and  white. 

"  Here,"  said  he  to  the  old  negro,  who  beheld  his  changed  countenance 
with  horror — "  Here  is  all  the  gold  I  have  in  the  world.     I  earned  it  by  my 
word  !     Take  it — I  will  never  touch  a  coin  that  comes  from  this  accursed 
/>il." 

He  passed  on,  spoke  to  Old  Legion,  leaped  into  the  saddle,  and  was  gone. 
The  negro  heard  a  wild  laugh  borne  shrilly  along  the  breeze.  The  old 
man  who,  with  his  white  hairs  waving  in  the  moonbeams,  came  out  and 
stood  upon  the  porch,  looked  far  down  the  lane,  and  beheld  the  white  horse 
and  his  rider.  The  moon  shone  from  among  the  rolling  clouds  with  a  light 
almost  like  day  ;  the  old  man  beheld  every  outline  of  that  manly  form — saw 
his  cap  of  fur  and  steel,  and  waving  cloak,  and  iron  sword  in  its  iron  sheath. 

Yet  never  once  did  he  behold  the  face  of  his  son  turned  back  toward  his 
childhood's  home. 


On  and  on  !  Never  mind  the  fence,  with  its  high  rail  and  pointed  stakes. 
Clear  it  with  a  bound,  Old  Legion  !  On  and  on  !  Never  mind  the  road  ; 
the  wood  is  dark,  the  branches  intermingle  above  our  heads,  but  we  will 


484  ROMANCE    OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

dash  through  the  darkness,  Old  Legion.  On,  on,  on  !  Never  heed  the 
brook  that  brawls  before  us  ;  it  is  a  terrible  leap,  from  the  rock  which  arises 
here,  to  the  rock  which  darkens  yonder,  but  we  must  leap  it,  Old  Legion  ! 
Soh,  my  brave  old  boy  !  Through  the  wood  again ;  along  this  hollow,  up 
the  hillside,  over  the  marsh.  Now  the  thunder  rolls,  and  the  lightning 
flashes  out ! — hurrah  !  Many  a  battle  we  have  fought  together,  but  this  is 
the  bravest  and  the  last ! 

— And  at  last,  the  blood  and  sweat,  mingling  on  his  white  flanks,  the 
gallant  old  horse  stood  on  the  Rock  of  the  Chesepeake,  trembling  in  every 
limb. 

Michael  looked  far  along  the  waters,  while  the  storm  came  crashing  down 
again,  and,  by  the  lightning  glare,  beheld  a  white  sail,  raking  masts,  and  a 
dark  hull,  careering  over  the  waters.  Now,  like  a  mighty  bird,  diving  into 
the  hollows  of  the  watery  hills,  she  was  lost  to  view.  And  now,  still 
like  a  mighty  bird,  outspreading  her  wings,  she  rose  again,  borne  by~the 
swell  of  a  tremendous  wave,  as  if  to  the  very  clouds. 

A  very  beautiful  sight  it  was  to  see,  even  by  the  light  of  that  lurid  flash — 
this  thing,  with  the  long  dark  hull,  the  raking  masts  and  the  white  sail ! 

She  came  bounding  over  the  bay ;  the  wind  and  waves  bore  her  towards 
the  lock. 

In  a  moment  the  resolution  of  Michael  was  taken.  One  glance  toward 
the  white  sail,  one  upon  the  darkened  sky,  and  then  he  quietly  drew  his 
pistol. 

"  Come,  Old  Legion," — he  said,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  mane  of  the 
old  horse — «*  You  are  the  only  friend  I  ever  trusted,  who  did  not  betray  me  !" 

The  first  word  he  had  spoken  since  the  old  man  whispered  "  LOST,"  in 
his  ears. 

"  Come,  Old  Legion,  your  master  is  about  to  leave  his  native  soil  forever  ! 
He  cannot  take  you  with  him.  Yonder's  the  sail  that  must  bear  him  away 
from  this  accursed  spot  forever.  He  cannot  take  you  with  him,  Old  Legion, 
but  he  will  do  a  kind  deed  for  you.  No  one  but  Michael  ever  crossed  your 
back,  nor  shall  you  ever  bear  another  !  Your  master  is  about  to  kill  you, 
Old  Legion  !" 

Nearer  drew  the  white  sail — nearer  and  nearer ! — The  sailors  on  the 
deck  beheld  that  strange  sight,  standing  out  from  the  background  of  the  dark 
clouds — the  rocks,  the  white  horse  and  the  dismounted  soldier,  with  the 
pistol  in  his  hand. 

They  saw  the  white  horse  lay  his  head  against  his  master's  breast,  they 
heard  his  long  and  piercing  neigh,  as  though  the  old  steed  felt  the  battle 
trump  stir  his  blood  once  more. 

They  heard  the  report  of  a  pistol ;  saw  a  human  form  spring  wildly  into 
the  waves  ;  while  the  white  horse,  dropping  on  his  fore-legs,  with  the  Mood 
streaming  from  his  breast,  upon  the  rock,  raised  his  dying  headg  aloft,  and 
uttered  once  more  that  long  and  piercing  howl. 


A   TRADITION    OF   THE   TWO    WORLDS.  485 

They  saw  a  head  rising  above  the  waves — then  all  was  dark  night  again. 
There  was  hurrying  to  and  fro  upon  the  vessels  deck ;  a  rope  was  thrown ; 
voices,  hoarse  with  shouting,  mingled  with  the  thunder-peal,  and  at  last,  as 
if  by  a  miracle,  the  drowning  man  was  saved. 

**  What  would  you  here  ?"  exclaimed  a  tall,  dark-bearded  man,  whose 
form  was  clad  in  a  strangely  mingled  costume  of  sailor  and  bandit — "  What 
would  you  here  ?" 

As  he  spoke,  he  confronted  the  form  of  Michael,  dripping  from  head  to 
foot  with  spray.  The  lightning  illumined  both  forms,  -and  showed  the 
sailors  who  looked  on,  two  men,  worthy  to  combat  with  each  other. 

"  Come  you  as  a  friend  or  foe  ?"  the  hand  of  the  dark-bearded  man  sought 
his  dirk  as  he  spoke. 

The  lightning  glare  showed  Michael's  face  ;  its  every  lineament  colored 
in  crimson  light.  There  was  no  quailing  in  his  bold  grey  eye,  no  fear  upon 
his  broad,  straight  forehead. 

Even  amid  the  storm,  an  involuntary  murmur  of  admiration  escaped  the 
sailors. 

"As  a  friend," — his  voice,  deep  and  hollow,  was  heard  above  the  war 
of  the  storm.  "  Only  bear  me  from  yonder  accursed  shore  !" 

"  But  sometimes,  when  out  upon  the  sea,  we  hoist  the  Black  Flag,  with 
a  Skull  and  Crossbones  prettily  painted  on  its  folds.  What  say  you  nou  ? 
Friend  or  Foe  ?  Comrade  or  Spy  ?" 

"  I  care  not  how  dark  your  flag,  nor  how  bloody  the  murder  which  ;re 
do  upon  the  sea — all  I  ask  is  this:  Bear  me  from  yonder  shore,  and  I  2m 
your  friend  to  the  death  !" 

And  swelling  with  a  sense  of  his  unutterable  wrongs,  this  bravest  of  the 
brave,  even  Michael  of  Lee's  gallant  Legion,  extended  his  hand  and  grasped 
the  blood-stained  fingers  of  the  Pirate  Chief. 

Then,  the  wild  hurrah  of  the  pirate-band  mingled  with  the  roar  of  the 
thunder,  and,  as  the  vessel  went  quivering  over  the  waters,  the  red  glare  of 
the  lightning  revealed  the  dark-bearded  face  of  the  Pirate  Chief,  the  writhing 
countenance  of  the  doomed  soldier. 

Their  hands  were  clasped.     It  was  a  Covenant  of  Blood. 


That  night,  while  the  Pirate-Ship  went  bounding  over  the  bay,  Michael 
flung  himself  upon  the  deck,  near  the  door  of  the  Captain's  cabin,  and  slept. 
As  he  slept  a  dream  came  over  his  soul. 

Not  a  dream  of  the  girl  who  had  pressed  her  kiss  upon  his  lip,  and  then 
betrayed  him,  not  a  vision  of  LOST  ALICE.  No  !  Nor  of  the  grey-haired 
father,  who  stood  on  the  porch,  gazing  after  the  form  of  his  son,  with  hia 
white  hair  floating  in  the  moonbeams. 

Nor  ever  of  that  gallant  horse,  that  white-maned  old  Legion,  *  the  only 
friend  he  had  trusted,  that  never  betrayed  him  I*  No  1 


486  ROMANCE  OF  THE   REVOLUTION. 

But  of  a  battle  !  Not  only  of  one  battle,  but  a  succession  of  battles,  thai 
eeemed  to  whirl  their  awful  storm  of  cannon  and  bayonet  and  sword,  not 
merely  over  one  country,  but  over  a  world.  The  heaps  of  dead  men  that 
Michael  saw  in  his  sleep,  made  the  blood  curdle  in  his  veins.  It  seemed 
as  though  the  People  of  a  World  had  died,  and  lay  rotting  unburied  in  the 
gorges  of  mountains,  on  the  gentle  slopes  of  far-extending  plains  ;  in  the 
streets  of  cities,  too,  they  lay  packed  in  horrible  compactness,  side  by  s>de, 
like  pebbles  on  the  shore. 

Many  strange  things  Michael  saw  in  this,  his  strange  dream  ;  but  amid 
ill,  he  beheld  one  face,  whose  broad,  expansive  brow,  and  deep,  burning 
«yes,  seemed  to  woo  his  soul.  That  face  was  everywhere.  Sometimes 
amid  the  grey  clouds  of  battle,  smiling  calmly,  while  ten  thousand  living 
men  were  mowed  away  by  one  battle  blast.  Sometimes  by  the  glare  of 
burning  cities,  this  face  was  seen :  its  calm  sublimity  of  expression, — that 
beautiful  forehead,  in  which  a  soul,  greater  than  earth,  seemed  to  make  its 
home,  those  dark  eyes  which  gleamed  a  supernatural  fire — all  shone  in 
terrible  contrast,  with  the  confusion  and  havoc  that  encircled  it. 

That  face  was  everywhere. 

And  it  seemed  to  Michael  as  he  slept,  that  it  came  very  near  him,  and  as 
these  scenes  passed  rapidly  before  his  eyes,  that  the  face  whispered  three 
words. 

These  words  Michael  never  forgot ;  strange  words  they  were,  and  these 
are  the  scenes  which  accompanied  them. 

Thefisrt  word : — A  strange  city  where  domes  and  towers  were  invested 
with  a  splendor  at  once  Barbaric  and  Oriental,  with  flames  whirling  about 
these  domes  and  towers,  while  the  legions  of  an  invading  Host  shrank  back 
from  the  burning  town  by  tens  of  thousands,  into  graves  of  ice  and  snow. 
The  face  was  there  looking  upon  the  mass  of  fire — the  soldiers  dying  in 
piles,  with  a  horrible  resignation. 

The  second  word: — He  saw — but  it  would  require  the  eloquence  of  some 
Fiend  who  delights  to  picture  Murder,  and  laugh  while  he  fills  his  horrible 
canvass  with  the  records  of  infernal  deeds, — yes,  it  calls  for  the  eloquence 
of  a  fiend  to  delineate  this  scene.  We  cannot  do  it.  We  can  only  say  that 
Michael  saw  some  peaceful  hills  and  valleys  crowded  as  if  by  millions  of 
men.  There  was  no  counting  the  instruments  of  murder  which  were  gath 
ered  there ;  cannon,  bayonets,  swords,  horses,  men,  all  mingled  together, 
and  all  doing  their  destined  work — Murder.  To  Michael  it  seemed  as  if 
these  cannons,  swords,  bayonets,  horses,  men,  murdered  all  day,  and  did  not 
halt  in  their  bloody  communion,  even  when  the  night  came  on. 

THE  FACE  was  there  ! 

Yes,  it  seemed  to  Michael,  in  this  his  strange  dream,  that  THE  FACE  was 
the  cause  of  it  all.  For  the  Kings  of  the  Earth,  having  (or  claiming)  a 
Divine  Commission  to  Murder,  each  one  on  his  own  account,  hated  fer 
vently  this  Face.  Hated  zealously  its  broad  forehead  and  earnest  eyes. 


A  TRADITION  OF  THE  TWO  WORLDS.  497 

Ilated  it  so  much,  that  they  assembled  a  World  to  cut  it  into  pieces,  and 
hack  its  memory  from  the  hearts  of  men. 

Michael  in  his  dream  saw  this  face  grow  black,  and  sink  beneath  an 
ocean  of  blood.  It  rose  no  more  ! 

Yes,  it  rose  again  !     When  ? 

The  third  word  was  spoken,  it  rose  again.  Michael  saw  this  face — 
with  its  awful  majesty  and  unutterable  beauty — chained  to  a  rock,  yet 
smiling  all  the  while.  Smiling,  though  all  manner  of  unclean  beasts  and 
birds  were  about  it — here  a  vulture  slowly  picking  those  dark  eyes  ; — there 
a  jackal  with  its  polluted  paw  upon  that  forehead,  so  sublime  even  in  this 
sad  hour. 

And  it  seemed  to  Michael  that  amid  all  the  scenes,  which  he  had  beheld 

in  this  his  terrible  dream,  that  the  last that  glorious  face,  smiling  even 

while  it  was  chained  to  a  rock,  tortured  by  jackals  and  vultures,  was  most 
terrible. 


With  a  start,  Michael  awoke. 

The  first  gleams  of  day  were  in  the  Eastern  sky  and  over  the  waters. 
His  strange,  fearful  dream  was  yet  upon  his  soul  ;  those  three  words  seemed 
ringing  forever  in  his  ears. 

As  he  arose,  something  bright  glittered  on  the  deck  at  his  feet.  He 
stooped  and  gathered  it  in  his  grasp.  It  was  his — mother's  bracelet.  An 
antique  thing  ;  some  links  of  gold  and  a  medallion,  set  with  a  fragment  of 
glossy  dark  hair. 

How  came  it  there  ?  upon  the  Pirate  Ship,  out  on  the  waves  ? 

Michael  pressed  i^to  his  lips,  and  stood  absorbed  in  deep  thought. 

While  thus  occupied,  the  muttered  conversation  of  two  sailors,  who  stood 
near  him,  came  indistinctly  to  his  ears.  Far  he  it  from  me  to  repeat  the 
horrid  blasphemies,  the  hideous  obscenities  of  these  men,  whom  long  days 
and  nights  of  crime,  had  embruted  into  savage  beasts.  Let  me  at  once  tell 
you  that  a  name  which  they  uttered,  coupled  with  many  an  oath  and  jest, 
struck  like  a  knell  on  Michael's  ear.  Another  word — he  listens — turns  and 
gazes  on  the  cabin  door. 

These  words  may  well  turn  to  ice  the  blood  in  his  veins. 

For  as  they  blaspheme  and  jest,  a  laugh — wild,  yet  musical,  comes  echo 
ing  through  the  cabin  door. 

As  Michael  hears  that  laugh,  he  disappears  in  the  darkness  of  the  com 
panion-way,  holding  the  bracelet  in  his  hand. 

An  hour  passed — day  was  abroad  upon  the  waters — but  Michael  appeared 
on  deck  no  more. 

In  his  stead,  from  the  companion-way,  there  came  a  stout,  muscular 
man,  clad  in  the  coarsest  sailor  attire,  his  face  stained  with  ochre,  a  close- 


488  ROMANCE    OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

fitting  skull-cap  drawn  over  his  forehead,  even  to  the  eyebrows.  A  rud« 
Pirate,  this,  somewhat  manly  in  the  expansion  of  his  chest,  no  doubt,  out 
who,  in  the  uncouth  shape,  before  us,  would  recognize  the  Hero  of  the 
Legion,  the  bravest  of  the  brave  ? 

He  was  leaning  over  the  side  of  the  ship,  gazing  into  the  deep  waves, 
when  the  door  of  the  Pirate  Captain's  cabin  was  opened,  and  the  Captain 
appeared.  You  can  see  his  muscular  form,  clad  in  a  dress  of  green,  laced 
with  gold,  plumes  waving  aside  from  his  swarthy  brow,  his  limbs,  encased 
in  boots  of  soft  doe-skin.  Altogether,  an  elegant  murderer ;  an  exquisite 
Pirate,  from  head  to  foot. 

The  rude  sailor — or  Michael,  as  you  please  to  call  him — leaning  over  the 
side  of  the  ship,  heard  the  Pirate  Captain  approach,  heard  the  light  footstep, 
which  mingled  its  echoes  with  the  sound  of  his  heavy  tread.  Light  foot 
step  ?  Yes,  for  a  beautiful  woman  hung  on  the  Pirate's  arm,  her  form, 
clad  in  the  garb  of  an  Eastern  Sultana,  her  darkly-flowing  hair  relieved  by 
the  gleam  of  pearls. 

As  she  came  along  the  deck,  she  looked  up  tenderly  into  his  face,  and 
her  light  laugh  ran  merrily  on  the  air. 

Michael  turned,  beheld  her,  and  survived  the  horror  of  that  look  !  She 
knew  him  not ;  the  soldier  and  hero  was  lost  in  his  uncouth  disguise. 

It  was — ALICE. 


Let  us  now  hurry  on,  over  many  days  of  blood  and  battle,  and  behold 
the  Pirate  Ship  sunk  in  the  ocean,  its  masts  and  shrouds  devoured  by  flames, 
while  the  water  engulfed  its  hull. 

Three  persons  alone  survived  that  wreck.  You  see  them,  yonder,  by 
the  light  of  the  morning  sun,  borne  by  a  miserable  raft  over  the  gently 
swelling  waters. 

Three  persons,  who  have  lived  for  days  or  nights  without  bread  or  water 
Let  us  look  upon  them,  and  behold  in  its  various  shapes  the  horrors  of 
famine. 

In  that  wretched  form,  laid  on  his  back,  his  hollow  cheeks  reddened  by 
the  sunbeams,  his  parched  eye-balls  upturned  to  the  sky,  who  would  recog 
nize  the  gallant — Pirate  Chief? 

By  his  side  crouches  a  half-clad  female  form,  beautiful  even  amid  horrors 
worse  than  death,  although  her  eyes  are  fired  with  unnatural  light,  her 
cheek  flushed  with  the  unhealthy  redness  of  fever,  her  lips  burning  in  their 
vivid  crimson  hues.  Starvation  is  gnawing  at  her  vitals,  and  yet  she  is 
beautiful ;  look — how  wavingly  her  dark  hair  floats  over  her  snowy  shoul 
ders  !  Is  this — Alice  ? 

The  third  figure,  a  rude  sailor,  his  face  stained  with  dark  red  hues,  a 
•kill-cap  drawn  down  to  his  eyebrows.  Brave  Michael,  of  Lee's  Legion. 


A    TRADITION    OF   THE   TWO    WORLDS.  489 

He  sits  with  his  elbows  resting  on  his  knees,  his  cheeks  supported  by  his 
hands,  while  his  eyes  are  turned  to  the  uprising  sun. 

A  groan  quivers  along  the  still  air.  It  is  the  last  howl  of  the  Pirate 
Chief;  with  that  sound — half-blasphemy,  half-prayer — lie  dies. 

His  bride — DO  beautiful,  even  yet  amid  famine  and  despair — covers  his 
lips  with  kisses,  and  at  last,  grasping  the  sailor  by  the  arm,  begs  him  to 
save  the  life  of  her — husband  ! 

The  sailor  turns,  tears  the  cap  from  his  brow  ;  the  paint  has  already 
gone  from  his  face. 

ALICE  and  MICHAEL  confront  each  other,  alone  on  that  miserable  raft,  a 
ihousand  miles  from  shore. 

Who  would  dare  to  paint  the  agony  of  her  look,  the  horror  of  the  shriek 
which  rent  her  bosom  ? 

Only  once  she  looked  upon  him — then  sunk  stiffened  and  appalled  beside 
her  pirate  husband.  But  a  calm  smile  illumined  Michael's  face  ;  he  towered 
erect  upon  the  quivering  raft,  and  drew  some  bread  and  a  flagon  of  water 
— precious  as  gold — from  the  pocket  of  his  coarse  sailor  jacket. 

"  For  you,"  he  said,  in  that  low-toned  voice  with  which  he  had  plighted 
his  eternal  troth  to  her — "  For  you  I  have  left  my  native  land.  For  you  I 
have  left  my  father,  alone  and  desolate  in  his  old  age.  For  you — not  by 
any  means  the  least  of  all  my  sufferings — 1  have  killed  the  good  old  war- 
horse,  the  only  friend  whom  I  ever  trusted,  that  did  not  betray  me.  For 
you,  Alice,  I  am  an  outcast,  wanderer,  exile  !  Behold  my  revenge  !  You 
are  starving — I  feed  you — give  you  meat  and  drink.  Yes,  I,  Michael,  your 
plighted  husband — bid  you  live.'"1 

He  placed  the  bread  and  water  in  her  grasp,  and  then  turned  with  folded 
arms  to  gaze  upon  the  rising  sun.  Do  you  see  that  muscular  form,  tower 
ing  from  the  raft— his  high,  straight  forehead,  glowing  in  the  light  of  the 
dawning  day  ? 

He  turned  again  :  there  was  a  dead  man  at  his  feet ;  a  dead  woman 
before  his  eyes. 

There  may  have  been  agony  at  his  heart,  but  his  face  was  unsoftened  by 
emotion.  With  his  lineaments  moulded  in  iron  rigidity,  he  resumed  his 
gaze  toward  the  rising  sun. 

At  last,  a  sail  came  gleaming  into  view — then  the  hull  of  a  man-of-war — 
and  then,  bright  and  beautiful  upon  the  morning  air,  fluttered  the  glorious 
emblem  of  Hope  and  Promise — the  tri-colored  FLAG  OF  FRANCE. 


Years  passed,  glorious  years,  which  beheld  a  World  in  motion  for  its 
rights  and  freedom. 

There  came  a  day,  when  the  sun  beheld  a  sight  like  this  : — A  man  of 
noble  presence,  whose  forehead,  broai,  and  high  and  straight,  shone  witfr 
31 


490  ROMANCE  OF  THE   REVOLUTION. 

the  chivalry  of  a  great  soul,  stood  erect,  in  the   presence  of  his  execu 
lioners. 

Those  executioners,  his  own  soldiers,  who  shed  tears  as  they  levelled 
their  pieces  at  his  heart. 

This  man  of  noble  presence  was  guilty  of  three  crimes  foi  which  the 
crowned  robbers  of  Europe  could  never  forgive  him. 

He  had  risen  from  the  humblest  of  the  people,  and  became  a  General,  a 
Marshal,  a  Duke. 

He  was  the  friend  of  a  great  and  good  man. 

In  the  hour  of  this  great  and  good  man's  trial,  when  all  the  crowned 
robbers,  the  anointed  assassins  of  Europe,  conspired  to  crush  him,  this 
General,  Marshal  and  Duke  refused  to  desert  the  great  and  good  man. 

For  this  he  was  to  be  shot — shot  by  his  own  soldiers,  who  could  not 
restrain  their  tears  as  they  gazed  in  his  face. 

Let  us  also  go  there,  gaze  upon  him,  mark  each  outline  of  his  face  and 
form,  just  at  the  moment  when  the  musquets  are  levelled  at  his  heart,  and 
answer  the  question — Does  not  this  General,  Marshal,  Duke,  now  stand 
ing  in  presence  of  his  Death?  s-men,  strangely  resemble  that  Michael  whom 
we  have  seen  on  the  banks  of  the  Chesapeake — the  Hero  of  Lee's  Legion 
— Bravest  of  the  Brave  ? 

Ere  the  question  can  be  answered,  the  Hero  waves  his  hand.  Looking 
his  soldiers  fixedly  in  the  face,  he  exclaims  in  that  voice  which  they  have 
so  often  heard  in  the  thickest  of  the  fight —  - 

"  AT  MY  HEART,  COMRADES  !" 

As  he  falls,  bathed  in  blood,  the  victim  of  a  "  Holy  Assassination,"  let 
us  learn  what  words  were  those  which  brave  Michael,  long  years  ago, 
heard  whispered  in  his  dream,  what  face  was  that,  which,  with  its  sublime 
forehead  and  earnest  eyes,  spoke  these  words  ?  Let  us  also  learn  who 
was  this  soldier  Michael,  of  Lee's  Legion? 

The  words  ?  The  first,  Moscow — the  second,  WATERLOO — the  third, 
ST.  HELENA. 

This  soldier  of  Lee's  Legion,  the  bravest  of  the  brave  ? 
MICHAEL  NEY. 


NOTE  BY  THE  AUTHOR.— The  idea  of  a  Legend  on  this  subject,  was  first 
suggested  by  an  able  article,  in  a  late  number  of  the  Southern  Literary  Messenger, 
which  presents  the  most  plausible  reasons,  in  favor  of  the  identity  of  Major  Michael 
Rudolph,  of  Lee's  Legion,  with  Michael  Ney,  the  Marshal  and  Hero  of  France,  who 
was  basely  murdered,  after  the  battle  of  Wartaloo. 

In  this  article,  it  is  distinctly  stated  that  in  personal  appearance  Ney  and  Rudolph 
were  strikingly  similar,  both  described  as  follows:  "  Five  feet  eight  inches  in  height 
— a  muscular  man  though  not  fat — of  high,  fat  forehead,  gray  eyes,  straight  eyebrows, 
prominent  cheek-bones,  and  fair  complexion." 

After  a  brilliant  career  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  a  campaign  under  Wayne. 
among  the  Indians,  Major  Ridolph  returned  to  his  home,  on  the  shores  of  the  Chesa 
peake,  after  ayear's  absence,  and  remained  for  the  night  at  the  residence  of  a  brother 
To  m'.ote  the  exact  words  of  the  article. 


THE  NINTH  HOUR.  401 


II.— THE   NINTH   HOUR. 

THE  time  was  1778 — the  place,  an  old-time  mansion,  among  the  hills  of 
Valley  Forge. 

Yonder,  in  a  comfortable  chamber,  seated  before  a  table,  overspread  with 
papers,  you  behold  a  gentleman  of  some  fifty-six  years,  attired  in  black 
velvet,  with  an  elegant  dress  sword  by  his  side,  snow-white  ruffles  on  his 
wrists  and  breast.  By  the  glow  of  the  fire,  which  crackles  on  the  spacious 
hearth,  you  can  discern  the  face  of  this  gentleman,  the  wide  and  massive 
brow,  the  marked  features,  and  the  clear,  deep  grey  eyes.  As  he  sits  erect 
in  the  cushioned  arm-chair,  you  can  at  a  glance  perceive  that  he  is  a  man 
of  almost  giant  stature,  with  muscular  limbs  and  iron  chest. 

And  snow  drifts  in  white  masses  on  yonder  hills,  which  you  behold 
through  the  deep  silled  windows  ;  and  the  wind,  moaning  as  with  a  nation's 
dirge,  howls  dismally  through  the  deep  ravines. 

Still  the  gentleman,  with  the  calm  face  and  deep  grey  eyes,  sits  in  silence 
there,  his  features  glowing  in  the  light  of  the  hearth-side  flame,  while  a 
pleasant  smile  trembles  on  his  compressed  lips. 

Altogether,  he  is  a  singular  man.  His  appearance  impresses  us  with  a 
strange  awe.  We  dare  not  approach  him  but  with  uncovered  heads.  The 
papers  which  overspread  the  table,  impress  us  with  a  vague  curiosity. 
There  you  behold  a  letter  directed  to  General  the  Marquis  de  La  Fayette  ; 
another  bears  the  name  of  General  Anthony  Wayne  ;  a  third  General  Bene 
dict  Arnold  ;  and  that  large  paoquet,  with  the  massive  seal,  is  inscribed  with 
the  words — To  His  Excellency,  John  Hancock,  President  of  the  Continen 
tal  Congress. 

This  gentleman,  sitting  alone  in  the  old-fashioned  chamber,  his  form  clad 
in  black  velvet,  his  face  glowing  in  mild  light,  must  be,  then,  a  person  of 
some  consideration,  perchance  a  warrior  of  high  renown  ? 


"  Here,  he  listens  to  a  domestic  revelation  of  the  most  cruel  and  humiliating  character 
— of  such  a  sort,  as  to  determine  not  again  to  return  to  his  family.  '  The  next 

we  hear  of  him,  is  an  adventurer,  about  to  sail  from  tht  Chesapeake,  in  a  small  vessel, 
laden  with  tobacco,  and  destined  to  St.  Domingo,  or  to  a  port  in  France." 

The  next  intelligence  of  him,  comes  from  Revolutionary  France.  He  soon  disap 
pears,  and  Ney,  a  man  strikingly  similar  in  appearance  and  traits  of  character,  rises  into 
view. 

Ney  spoke  English  fluently  ;  was  viewed  as  a  foreigner  by  the  French,  and  called  in 
derision  the  "  Foreign  Tobacco  Merchant." 

In  short,  the  evidence  placed  before  us,  in  this  article — which  our  want  of  space  will 
not  permit  us  to  quote  in  full— seems  almost  conclusive,  on  the  important  point,  that  Ney 
and  Rudolph  were  the  same  man.  While  on  this  topic,  we  may  remark,  that  Berna- 
doite,  the  King  of  Sweden,  was  a  soldier  in  our  Revolution.  The  reader  will  of  course 
understand,  that  in  our  Legend  above  given,  we  are  alone  responsible  for  the  details,  as 
well  as  all  variations  from  the  plain  narrative  of  facts. 

Whether  true  or  false,  it  is  a  splendid  subject  for  a  Picture  of  the  Past:  That  the 
eame  hejoic  Legion  of  Lee,  which  earned  for  itself  imperishable  renown,  in  the  dark 
times  of  Revolution,  also  ranked  among  its  Iron-Men,  the  gallant  Marshal  Ney,  the 
Bravest  of  the  Brave. 


192  ROMANCE   OF    THE    REVOLUTION. 

As  you  look  in  mingled  wonder  and  reverence  upon  his  commanding 
face,  the  sound  of  a  heavy  footstep  is  heard,  and  a  grim  old  soldier,  clad  in 
the  hunting  shirt  of  the  Revolution,  appears  in  yonder  doorway,  and  ap 
proaches  the  gentleman  in  black  velvet. 

He  lifts  the  rude  cap  with  bucktail  plume  from  his  sunburnt  brow,  and 
accomplishes  a  rough  salute.  Then,  he  speaks  in  a  voice  which  may  have 
been  rendered  hoarse  by  much  shouting  in  battle,  or  sleeping  dark  winter 
nights  on  the  uncovered  ground. 

"  General,  I  heer'd  you  wanted  to  speak  to  me,  and  I  am  here." 

The  gentleman  in  black  velvet,  raised  his  clear  grey  eyes,  and  a  slight 
smile  disturbed  the  serenity  of  his  face. 

"  Ah,  Sergeant  Caleb,  I  am  glad  to  see  you.  I  want  your  aid  in  an  un 
dertaking  of  great  importance/' 

"  Say  the  word,  and  Caleb's  your  man  !" 

"  Nine  miles  from  the  mansion,  at  four  o'clock  this  afternoon,  the  « Loyal 
Rangers  of  Valley  Forge,'  hold  their  meeting.  Their  captain,  a  desperate 
man,  has  prepared  a  number  of  important  papers  for  Sir  William  Howe. 
In  these  papers  are  recorded  the  names  of  all  persons  within  ten  miles,  who 
are  friendly  to  the  British  cause,  or  who  are  willing  to  supply  Sir  William 
with  provisions,  together  with  a  minute  description  of  the  affairs  and  pros 
pects  of  the  Continental  army.  At  four  this  afternoon,  these  papers  will  be 
delivered  to  an  officer  of  the  British  army,  who  is  expected  from  Philadel 
phia  in  the  disguise  of  a  farmer.  That  officer  is  now  a  prisoner  near  our 
headquarters  on  the  Schuylkill,  some  six  miles  from  this  place.  You — un 
derstand  me,  Sergeant  Caleb — you  will  assume  this  disguise,  hurry  to  the 
Tory  rendezvous,  and  receive  the  papers  from  the  hands  of  the  Captain." 

As  the  gentleman  spoke,  the  countenance  of  the  old  soldier  assumed  an 
expression  of  deep  chagrin.  The  corners  of  his  mouth  were  distorted  in 
an  expression  of  comical  dismay,  while  his  large  blue  eyes  expanding  in 
his  sunburnt  face,  glared  with  unmistakable  horror. 

He  had  been  with  Arnold  at  Quebec,  with  Washington  at  Brandywine, 
this  hardy  Sergeant  Caleb — but  to  go  to  the  Tory  rendezvous  in  disguise, 
was  to  act  the  part  of  a  SPY,  and  the  robber-captain  of  the  Tories  would 
put  him  to  death,  on  the  first  rope  and  nearest  tree,  as  a — SPY  ! 

Therefore  the  old  Sergeant,  who  had  played  with  death  as  with  a  boon 
companion,  when  he  came  in  the  shape  of  a  sharp  bayonet,  or  a  dull  can 
non  ball,  feared  him  when  he  appeared  in  the  guise  of  a — Gibbet ! 

"  You  are  not  afraid  ?"  said  the  gentleman.  "  That  will  be  news  in 
deed,  for  the  soldiers  !  Sergeant  Caleb  Ringdale  afraid  !" 

The  old  Sergeant  quivered  from  head  to  foot,  as  he  laid  his  muscular 
hand  upon  the  table,  and  exclaimed  in  a  voice  broken  by  an  emotion  not 
any  the  less  sincere  because  it  was  rude  : 

"  Afeer'd  ?  Now  Gineral  Washington,  it  isn't  kind  to  say  that  o'  me  ! 
I'm  not  afeer'd  of  anythin'  in  the  shape  of  a  white  or  black  human  bein' 


THE    NINTH   HOUR.  498 

out  this  tory  Cap'in  Runnels,  is  a  reg'lar  fiend,  and  that's  a  fact  nobodj 
can  deny  !" 

"  Do  you  fear  him  ?" 

"  Not  a  peg  !  For  all  he's  the  bloodiest  villain  that  ever  murdered  a 
man  in  the  name  of  King  George — for  all  he  hides  himself  in  the  darkest 
hollow,  in  the  meanest,  old,  out-of-the-way  farm-house,  I  don't  fear,  no 
more  than  I  feer'd  them  ten  Britishers  that  fell  on  me  at  Paoli !  But  do 
you  see,  Gineral,  I  don't  like  the  idea  of  goin'  as  a  spy  !  That's  what 
cuts  an  old  feller's  feelin's  !  Say  the  word,  and  I'll  go,  just  as  I  am,  in  my 
own  proper  uniform — not  very  handsome,  yet  still  the  rale  Continental — 
an'  tell  the  Britishers  to  crack  away,  and  be  hanged  !" 

And  in  the  honest  excitement  of  the  moment,  the  old  Sergeant  brought 
his  closed  hand  to  bear  upon  the  table,  until  the  papers  shook  again. 

Washington  rested  his  cheek  upon  his  hand,  while  his  face  was  darkened 
by  an  expression  of  anxious  thought. 

"  You  do  not  wish  to  go  as  a  spy,  and  yet  there  are  no  other  means  of 
securing  these  papers." 

You  can  see  the  old  soldier  stand  confused  and  puzzled  there,  wiping  the 
perspiration  from  his  brow  with  his  bony  hand,  while  Washington  turning 
hir.  chair,  folds  his  arms,  and  gazes  steadily  into  the  fire. 

"  Is  there  no  man  who  will  undertake  this  desperate  office  in  my  name  ? 
in  the  name  of  the  cause  for  which  we  fight  ?" 

And  as  the  words  passed  his  lips,  a  soft  voice — almost  as  soft  and 
musical  as  a  woman's — uttered  this  reply,  which  thrilled  the  General  to 
th*!  heart : 

"  There  is.     I  will  undertake  it,  General." 

Washington  started  from  his  chair. 

14  You  !"  he  exclaimed,  surveying  the  intruder  from  head  to  foot. 

It  must  be  confessed,  that  the  expression  of  wonder  which  passed  over 
thu  face  of  the  American  General,  was  not  without  a  substantial  cause. 

There  in  the  glow  of  the  fire,  stood  a  young  man,  graceful  and  slender, 
almost  to  womanly  beauty,  and  clad  not  in  the  dress  of  a  soldier,  but  in  the 
costume  of  a  gentleman  of  fashion,  a  coat  of  dark  rich  purple  velvet,  satin 
vest,  disclosing  the  proportions  of  a  broad  chest  and  wasp-like  waist,  dia 
mond  buckles  on  the  shoes,  and  cambric  ruffles  around  each  delicate  hand. 

"  You  !"  exclaimed  Washington,  "  surely  Ensign  Murray,  you  are 
dreaming  !" 

The  face  of  the  young  man  was  somewhat  peculiar.  The  skin  very  pale 
and  delicate  as  a  woman's.  The  hair,  long  and  dark  brown  in  color,  wav 
ing  in  rich  masses  to  the  shoulders.  The  eyes,  deep  and  clear — almost 
black,  and  yet  with  a  shade  of  blue — shone  with  an  expression  which  you 
could  not  define,  and  yet  it  was  at  once  calm,  wild  and  dazzling.  Indeed, 
gazing  on  those  eyes,  or  rather  into  their  clear  lustre,  you  could  not  divest 
yourself  of  the  idea  that  they  reflected  the  light  of  a  strong  intellect,  at  the 


4«J4  ROMANCE    OF   THE    REVOLUTION. 

same  time,  an  intellect  shaken  and  warped  by  some  peculiar  train  of 
thought. 

"  Yes,  General,"  was  the  answer  of  Ensign  Murray ;  "  at  four  o'clock. 
in  the  disguise  of  a  British  officer,  I  will  enter  the  den  of  the  Tories  and 
receive  those  papers  !" 

Washington  took  the  young  man  by  the  hand,  and  without  a  word  led 
him  across  the  room. 

*'  Look  there  !"  he  whispered. 

"They  stood  beside  a  glass  door,  which  opened  the  view  into  the  next 
apartment,  the  drawing-room  of  the  mansion. 

As  Ensign  Murray  looked,  his  pale  yet  handsome  face  was  darkened  by 
an  expression  of  indefinable  agony. 

There,  beside  the  fire  of  the  next  chamber  was  seated  a  young  girl, 
whose  hair  descended  in  curling  masses  along  her  cheek,  until  they  touched 
her  neck.  A  green  habit  fitting  closely  to  her  form,  revealed  its  warm  and 
blooming  proportions.  She  sat  there  alone,  bending  over  an  embroidery 
frame,  her  dark  eyes  gleaming  with  light,  as  tranquil  as  the  beam  of  the 
evening  star,  upon  the  unruffled  depths  of  a  mountain  lake. 

And  as  her  white  fingers  moved  briskly  over  the  flowers,  which  grew  into 
life  at  her  touch,  she  sang  a  low  and  murmuring  song. 

"  Look  there  !"  whispered  Washington,  "  ami  behold  your  bride  !  To 
night  your  wedding  will  take  place.  This  very  morning  I  left  Valley 
Forge,  in  order  to  behold  your  union  with  this  beautiful  and  virtuous 
woman.  And  yet  you  talk  of  going  in  disguise  into  the  den  of  robbers, 
who  hesitate  at  no  deed  of  cruelty  or  murder,  and  this  on  your  bridal- 
eve !" 

There  was  a  strange  expression  on  the  young  man's  face — a  sudden  con 
tortion  of  those  pale,  handsome  features— but  in  a  moment  all  was  calm 
again. 

"  General,  I  will  go,"  he  said,  "  and  return  before  sunset !" 

He  stood  before  the  Man  of  the  Army,  his  slender  form  swelling  as  with 
the  impulse  of  a  heroic  resolve. 

"  George,"  said  Washington,  in  a  tone  of  kind  familiarity  ;  "  you  must 
not  think  of  this  !  When  your  father  died  in  my  arms  at  Trenton,  I 
promised  that  I  would,  to  the  last  breath  of  life,  be  a  father  to  his  boy.  I 
will  not,  cannot,  send  you  on  this  fearful  enterprise  !" 

"  Look  you  !"  cried  the  old  Sergeant,  advancing — "  I  don't  like  this  of 
fice  of  a  Spy— but  sooner  than  the  young  Ensign  here  should  peril  his  life 
at  such  an  hour,  I'll  go  myself!  Jist  set  me  down  for  that  thing,  will  you  ?" 

"  General !"  said  the  Ensign,  laying  his  white  hand  on  the  muscular  arm 
of  Washington,  and  speaking  in  a  deep,  deliberate  voice,  that  was  strongly 
contrasted  with  his  effeminate  appearance  and  slender  frame — "  did  I  be 
have  badly  at  Brandywine  ?" 

44  Never  a  braver  soldier  drew  sword,  than  you  proved  yourself  on  thai 


THE   NINTH   HOUR.  495 

terrible  day  !  Twice  with  my  own  arm  I  had  to  restrain  you  from  rushing 
on  to  certain  death  !" 

"  At  Germantown  ?" 

"  I  can  speak  for  him  there,  Gineral !  You'd  ought  to  seen  him  rushing 
up  to  Chew's  house,  into  the  very  muzzles  of  the  British  !  He  made 
many  an  old  soldier  feel  foolish,  I  tell  you  !" 

"  You  were  the  last  in  the  retreat,  George,  the  last  and  the  bravest !" 

"  Then  can  you  refuse  me  this  one  request  ?  Let  me  go — secure  those 
papers — and  come  back  crowned  with  laurels,  to  wed  my  bride  !" 

He  spoke  in  a  clear  deliberate  tone,  and  yet  there  was  a  strange  fire  in 
his  eye. 

Washington  hesitated  ;  his  gaze  surveyed  the  young  man's  face,  and  then 
turning  away  he  wrung  him  by  the  hand  : 

"  On  those  papers,  perchance,  the  safety  of  our  army  depends.  Go  or 
stay  as  you  please.  I  do  not  command  nor  forbid  !" 

With  that  word  he  resumed  his  seat,  and  bowed  his  head  in  the  effort  to 
peruse  the  documents  which  were  scattered  over  the  table.  He  bowed  his 
head  very  low,  and  yet  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes — tears  in  those  eyes 
which  had  never  quailed  in  the  hour  of  battle,  tears  in  the  eyes  of  Wash 
ington  ! 

The  young  man  turned  aside  into  a  dark  corner  of  the  room,  and  covered 
his  Wedding-Dress  with  a  coarse  grey  over-coat,  that  reached  from  his  chin 
to  his  knees.  Then  he  drew  on  long  and  coarse  boots,  over  his  shoes 
gemmed  with  diamond  buckles.  A  broad-rimmed  hat  upon  his  curling 
locks,  and  he  stood  ready  for  the  work  of  danger. 

"  General,"  he  said,  in  that  soft  musical  voice — "  is  there  a  watch-word 
which  admits — ha,  ha  ! — the  British  officer  into  the  Tory  farm-house  ?" 

"  DEATH  TO  WASHINGTON  !"  and  a  sad  smile  gleamed  over  the  General's 
face. 

•*  The  name  of  the  British  officer  whose  character  I  am  to  assume  ?" 

"  «  Captain  Algernon  Edam,  of  His  Majesty's  Infantry  !' — He  is  now 
under  guard,  near  headquarters,  at  Valley  Forge." 

"  Hah  !"  gasped  Ensign  Murray.     "  Captain  Edam  !" 

**  You  know  him,  then  ?" 

"  I  have  known  Captain  Edam,"  answered  George  Murray,  with  that 
strange  smile  which  invested  his  face  with  an  expression  that  was  almost 
supernatural. 

"  These  papers  will  give  you  all  requisite  information.  The  farm-house 
is  three  miles  distant  from  this  place,  and  nine  miles  from  Valley  Forge." 

"  Nine  !"  ejaculated  the  Ensign,  with  a  sudden  start.  "  Ah  !"  he  mut 
tered  in  a  whisper  that  would  have  penetrated  your  blood — "  Must  that  hor 
rible  number  always  pursue  me  ?  Nine  years,  nine  days  !  These  must 
pass,  and  then  I  will  wed  rny  bride — but  such  a  bride  !" 

Washington  heard  him  murmur,  but  could  not  distinguish  the  words,  yet 


496  ROMANCE  OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

he  saw  mat  pale  face  flushing  with  unnatural  crimson,  while  the  deep  blue 
eye  glaied  with  wild  light. 

"  Again  let  me  entreat  you  to  give  up  your  purpose.  Your  danger  is 
enough  to  appal  the  stoutest  heart !  Not  only  death  you  dare,  but  death  on 
the— gibbet !" 

In  the  earnestness  of  his  feelings,  Washington  would  have  seized  him  by 
the  arm,  but  the  Ensign  retreated  from  his  grasp,  and  left  the  room  with 
his  exclamation  : 

"  Farewell,  General !  Do  not  fear  for  me  !  Believe  me,  I  will  before 
the  setting  of  yonder  sun,  attain  the  object  which  I  so  earnestly  desire  !" 

In  the  hall  a  new  trial  awaited  the  young  soldier.  He  was  confronted 
by  a  jovial  old  man,  with  a  corpulent  frame,  round  face  and  snow-white 
hair.  It  was  Squire  Musgrave,  a  fine  specimen  of  the  old  fashioned  gentle 
man  and — the  father  of  his  bride. 

"  Hah,  you  young  dog  !  What  trick  is  this  ?"  said  the  old  Squire,  with 
a  jovial  chuckle  ;  "  you  skulked  away  from  the  table  just  now,  proving 
yourself  a  most  disloyal  traitor  to  old  Madeira !  And  now  I  find  you  in 
this  disguise  !  Eh,  Georgie  !  What's  in  the  wind  ?" 

"  Hush  !  Not  a  word  to  'Bel  !"  exclaimed  the  Ensign,  with  a  smile  on 
his  lips,  and  a  look  of  affected  mystery  in  his  eyes.  "  Not  a  word,  or 
you'll  spoil  a  capital  jest ! 

Thus  speaking,  he  flung  himself  from  the  old  man,  and  stood  upon  the 
porch  of  the  mansion.  The  beautiful  country  lay  there  before  him,  not 
lovely  as  in  summer,  with  green  leaves,  perfume  and  flowers,  but  covered 
far  up  each  hill,  and  down  into  the  shades  of  each  valley,  with  a  mantle  of 
frozen  snow.  The  trees,  their  bared  limbs  upstarting  into  the  deep  blue 
sky,  were  glittering  with  leaves  and  fruits,  sculptured  from  the  ice  by  the 
finger  of  Winter. 

And  the  rich  warm  glow  of  the  declining  sun  was  upon  it  all — the  old 
mansion,  with  its  dark  grey  stone  and  antique  porch,  the  far-extending  hills 
and  winding  dales  of  Valley  Forge. 

The  Ensign  stood  upon  the  verge  of  the  porch  ;  he  was  about  to  depart 
upon  his  enterprise  of  untold  danger,  when — 

A  soft  warm  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder  ;  another  was  placed  across 
his  eyes,  and  a  light  laugh  thrilled  him  to  the  heart. 

"  Oh,  you  look  like  the  ogre  of  some  goblin  story  !"  said  a  voice  which 
almost  made  him  relent  the  stern  purpose  of  that  hour — "  If  you  would  only 
look  in  the  glass  and  see  yourself!  Ha,  ha,  ha  !" 

And  as  the  soft  hand  was  lifted  from  his  eyes,  George  beheld  the  beauti 
ful  form  and  beaming  face  of  his — bride. 

"  Softly,  Isabel !     Not  a  word  !"  he  whispered  laughingly,  ••  Or  yon  will 
upoil  one  of  the  finest  jests  ever  planned  !" 
He  pressed  his  kiss  upon  her  warm  ripe  lips. 


THE    NINTH  HOUR.  497 

"  THE  LAST  !"  he  murmured,  as  that  pressure  of  soul  to  soul  through  the 
mingling  lips,  fired  every  vein. 

He  darted  from  the  porch,  and  hurried  on  his  way.  Far  over  the  frozen 
enow  he  toiled  along,  and  only  once  looked  back. 

With  that  look  of  fearful  anxiety  he  beheld  his  bride,  standing  on  the 
porch,  her  long  hair  floating  from  her  face,  while  her  merry  laugh  cam« 
ringing  to  his  ears. 

Did  you  ever  in  a  nightmare  dream,  chance  to  behold  a  dark  old  man 
sion,  standing  utterly  alone  in  the  shadows  of  a  dell,  encircled  by  steep 
hills,  rough  with  rocks,  and  sombre  with  thickly  clustered  trees  ?  In  this 
dell  noonday  is  twilight,  and  twilight  is  midnight,  so  darkly  frown  the 
granite  rocks,  so  lowering  rise  the  forest  trees. 

But  this  is  in  the  summer  time,  when  there  are  leaves  upon  the  trees,  and 
vines  among  the  rocks.  In  the  summer  time  when  the  little  brook  yonde  r, 
winding  before  the  mansion,  sings  a  rippling  song  in  praise  of  the  flowers, 
and  moss,  and  birds. 

Now  it  is  winter.  Yonder,  through  the  tall  and  leafless  oaks,  glares  the 
red  flush  of  the  sunset  sky.  Every  tree  with  its  rugged  limbs,  and  stripped 
branches,  stands  up  against  the  western  horizon,  like  a  tree  of  ebocy, 
painted  on  a  sky  of  crimson  and  gold.  Winter  now  !  The  rocks,  the 
hill-side,  the  very  ice  which  covers  the  brook,  is  white  with  a  mantle  of 
snow,  that  gleams  and  blushes  in  the  sunset  glare. 

Still  the  old  mansion  rises  in  sullen  gloom,  its  dark  walls  tottering  as 
though  about  to  fall,  its  shutters  closed,  its  doorway  crumbling  into  fragments. 
And  like  a  white  veil  flung  over  some  ruffian  bandit's  brow,  the  steep  roof, 
covered  with  wreaths  of  snow,  gleams  above  the  dark  grey  walls. 

Is  this  old  mansion  tenanted  by  anything  that  wears  the  shape  of  man  ? 
As  we  look,  the  leaning  chimney  sends  up  its  column  of  blue  smoke  to  the 
evening  sky.  Still  for  all  that  emblem  of  fireside  comfort,  the  farm-house 
looks  like  a  den  for  murderers. 

Look  closely  on  its  shutters  and  wide  door,  and  you  will  perceive  certain 
port-holes,  made  for  the  musquet  and  rifle. 

There  are  footsteps  printed  on  the  frozen  snow,  and  yet  you  hear  no 
voices,  you  behold  no  form  of  man  or  beast. 

At  this  hour,  when  the  solemn  flush  of  a  winter  sunset  is  upon  the 
mantle  of  snow,  there  comes  slowly  toiling  over  the  frozen  crust,  the  figure 
of  a  young  man  clad  in  a  coarse  overcoat,  with  a  broad-rimmed  hat  upon 
his  brow.  That  coat  gathers  around  his  slender  form  in  heavy  folds,  and 
yet  it  cannot  hide  the  heavings  of  his  chest.  The  hat  droops  low  over  hi? 
face,  and  yet  cannot  conceal  the  wild  glance  of  those  deep  blue  eyes. 

Urging  his  way  along  the  frozen  snow, — the  shadow  of  his  form  thrown 
far  and  black  behind  him — ne  stands  before  the  battered  door  of  the  farm 
house,  he  lifts  the  iron  knocker  and  a  sound  like  a  knell  breaks  on  the 
etili  air. 


4'J8  ROMANCE   OF   THE    REVOLUTION. 

The  young  man  listens  eagerly,  but  no  answer  greets  his  summons. 
Then  turning  his  face  to  the  evening  sky,  he  stands  erect  upon  the  granite 
etone  before  the  door,  and  in  a  clear  voice  repeats  the  words — 
'*  DEATH  TO  WASHINGTON  !" 

There  is  the  sound  of  an  unclosing  door,  the  young  man  is  seized  by  un 
known  hands,  and  borne  along  a  dark  passage  into  a  large  and  gloomy 
place. 

It  may  be  a  room,  it  may  be  a  cavern,  but  all  that  greets  his  sight  is  a 
large  fire,  burning  on  a  wide  hearth,  and  flashing  a  lurid  glare  over  some 
twenty  ruffian  faces. 

A  dark,  a  hideous  picture  ! 

A  single  form  distinguished  from  the  others  by  its  height,  but  wearing  the 
pistols  and  knife,  common  to  all,  advances  and  confronts  the  stranger.  The 
young  man,  in  that  lowering  face  marked  by  the  traces  of  many  a  crime, 
recognizes  "  BLACK  RUNNELS,"  the  Tory  Chief. 

"  Whence  came  you  ?" 

As  lie  speaks,  a  strange  sound  mingles  with  his  words — the  clicking  of 
pistols,  the  clang  of  knives. 

"  From  the  headquarters  of  General  Sir  William  Howe  !"  the  young 
man  answered,  in  a  clear  deliberate  voice. 

"  Your  object  here  ?" 

"  The  possession  of  certain  papers  prepared  by  Captain  Runnels,  for  Sir 
William  Howe." 

"  Your  name  ?" 

"  Algernon  Edam,  Captain  in  his  Majesty's  infantry  !"  replied  the  young 
man,  in  the  same  collected  manner. 

There  was  a  murmur,  a  confused  sound  as  of  many  voices  whispering  in 
chorus,  and  in  a  moment  the  blaze  of  a  large  lamp  filled  that  spacious  room 
with  light. 

"  Now  look  ye,  Captain,"  said  the  Tory  leader,  earnestly  regarding  the 
disguised  American,  "  we  don't  doubt  as  how  you  are  the  rale  Captain 
Edam,  but  we  Loyal  Rangers  have  a  way  of  our  own.  We  never  trusts  an 
individooal  afore  we  tries  his  spunk.  If  you  are  a  true  Briton,  you  wont 
object  to  the  trial.  If  so  be  you  chances  to  prove  a  Rebel,  why,  we'll  soon 
find  it  out." 

The  answer  of  the  young  man  was  short  and  to  the  point : 

"  Name  your  trial,  and  I  am  ready  !" 

"  Do  you  see  that  keg  o'  powder  thar  ?  We'll  attach  a  slow  match  to  it 
— a  match  that'll  take  three  minutes  to  burn  out !  You  will  sit  on  that 
keg ! — Afore  the  three  minutes  is  out,  we'll  return  to  the  house,  and  see 
how  you  stand  the  trial !  If  there's  a  drop  of  sweat  on  your  forehead,  or 
«ny  sign  of  paleness  on  your  cheek,  we  will  conclude  that  you  are  a  rebel, 
and  deserve  to  die  !n 


1HE    NINTH   HOUR.  499 

The  Tories  gathered  round,  gazing  in  the  young  man's  face  with  looks 
jf  deep  interest. 

"  Pshaw  !"  exclaimed  the  object  of  their  interest,  "  what  need  of  this 
nonsense  ?  I  am  a  British  officer — but — what  need  of  words,  1  am  ready, 
and  will  stand  the  trial." 

Thus  speaking,  he  saw  the  match  applied  to  the  keg,  he  saw  it  lighted, 
and  took  his  seat.  With  a  confused  murmur,  the  Tories  left  the  room. 

"  Look  ye,"  cried  the  last  of  their  band,  who  stood  in  the  doorway — it 
was  the  Captain — "  we  will  conceal  ourselves,  where  the  blowing  up  of  the 
house  can  do  us  no  injury — that  is,  in  case  the  worthless  old  den  should 
happen  to  blow  up.  In  two  minutes  we'll  return.  Take  care  o'  yourself, 
Captain  !" 

The  young  man  was  alone — alone  in  that  large  old  room,  the  light  of  the 
lamp  falling  over  his  brow,  the  keg  beneath  him,  the  match  slowly  burning 
near  his  feet. 

Why  does  he  not  extinguish  the  match,  and  at  once  put  an  end  to  this 
fearful  danger  ?  Why  does  he  sit  there,  fixed  as  a  statue,  his  pale  face 
wearing  its  usual  calm  expression,  his  deep  blue  eyes  gleaming  with  their 
peculiar  light  ? 

Not  a  motion — not  a  movement  of  the  hand  which  holds  his  watch — not 
a  tremor  of  the  face  ! 

What  are  the  thoughts  of  this  young  man,  whom  another  minute  may 
precipitate  into  eternity  by  a  horrible  death  ? 

Does  he  think  of  the  young  bride,  who  even  now  awaits  his  coming  ? 

Two  minutes  have  expired.  The  Tories  do  not  return.  Slowly,  surely 
burns  the  match — as  calm,  as  fixed  as  marble,  the  young  man  awaits 
his  fate. 

The  half-minute  is  gone,  and  yet  no  sign  of  the  bravoes. 

At  last — O !  do  not  let  your  eyes  wander  from  his  pale,  beautiful  face,  in 
this,  the  moment  of  his  dread  extremity — the  match  emits  a  sudden  flame, 
sparkles,  crackles,  and  burns  out  ! 

"  Nine  years,  nine  days  !     At  last,  thank  God,  it  is  over !" 

These  were  his  last  words,  before  the  powder  exploded.  He  folded  his 
arms,  closed  his  eyes,  and  gave  his  soul  to  God. 

Did  that  lonely  house  ascend  to  heaven,  a  pyramid  of  blackening  frag 
ments,  and  smoke  and  flame,  with  the  corse  of  the  young  man  torn  into 
atoms  by  the  explosion  ? 

For  a  moment  he  awaited  his  fate — all  was  silent.  Then  came  the 
§ound  of  trampling  footsteps ;  the  young  man  unclosed  his  eyes,  and  beheld 
the  faces  of  the  Tory  band. 

"Game,  I  vow,  game  to  the  last!"  cried  the  Tory  leader,  Runnels  — 
"  Do  ye  know  we  watched  ye  all  the  while,  from  a  crack  in  yonder  door  ' 
It  was  only  a  trial  you  know,  but  a  trial  that  would  have  made  many  an 
older  man  than  you  shiver,  turn  pale,  and  cry  like  a  babe  ! — There'a  no 


500  ROMANCE    OF    THE   REVOLUTION 

powder  in  the  keg — ha,  ha !  How'd  ye  feel  when  the  match  burnt 
out  ?" 

"  Give  me  the  papers,"  asked  the  brave  young  man.  ««  Let  me  hasten 
on  my  way !" 

"  O,  I  don't  object  to  giving  you  the  papers,"  cried  the  Tory.  "  But, 
afore  I  do,  I  like  to  ask  your  opinion  of  this  gentleman  ?" 

As  he  spoke,  the  Tories  parted  into  two  divisions  ;  in  their  dentre  ap 
peared  a  man  of  some  thirty  years,  his  tall  and  muscular  form  clad  in  crim 
son,  his  florid  face  with  powdered  hair  and  light  blue  eye,  ruffled  by  a 
sneering  smile. 

"  Captain  Edam  !"  exclaimed  the  disguised  American,  completely  taken 
by  surprise — "  I  thought  you  were  a  prisoner,  nine  miles  away  at  Valley 
Forge  ?" 

"  Yes,  Captain  Edam,  at  your  service  !"  replied  the  British  officer  with 
a  polite  bow. 

As  he  spoke,  a  burst  of  hoarse  laughter  made  the  old  room  echo  again, 

"  It  was  well  planned,  my  dear  Ensign,  but  it  won't  do  !"  exclaimed  the 
Briton  ; — "  I  was  a  prisoner,  but — escaped  !  You  were  a  British  officer,  a 
moment  ago,  but  now,  you  are — a  Spy.  I  presume  it  is  needless  to  tell 
you  the  fate  of  a  Spy." 

It  was  strange  to  see  the  calm  smile  which  broke  from  the  young  En 
sign's  lips  and  eyes. 

"  Death  !"  he  replied,  in  his  low  musical  voice. 

"  Death— aye,  death  by  the  rope  !"  shouted  the  Tory  Captain  ;— "  I 
say,  Watkins,  rig  a  rope  to  that  beam  !  We'll  show  you  how  to  play 
tricks  on  Loyal  Rangers." 

The  rope  was  attached  to  the  beam — the  noose  arranged  ;  the  Tories 
filled  with  indignation,  clustered  round — still  the  young  man  stood  calm  and 
smiling  there. 

"  Ensign,  you  have  ten  minutes  to  live,"  said  the  handsome  British 
officer.  "  Make  your  peace.  You  have  been  taken  as  a  spy,  and — ha, 
ha  !  must  be  punished  as  a  spy  !" 

"  Thank  God  !"  said  the  young  man  in  a  whisper,  not  meant  to  be 
audible,  yet  they  heard  it,  every  Tory  in  the  room. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  young  man,  you're  thankful  for  very  small  favors  !" 
cried  the  Tory  leader,  with  a  brutal  laugh. 

The  gallant  Captain  Edam  made  a  sign— the  Tories  trooped  through  the 
door-way. 

George  Murray  was  alone  with  Algernon  Edam. 

George  Murray  was  pale — but  not  paler  than  usual — his  blue  eyes 
glaring  with  deep  light,  his  lip  a  lip  of  iron.  Algernon  Edam  was  tall  and 
magnificent  in  his  healthy  and  robust  manhood.  There  was  ill-suppresseil 
laughter  in  his  light  blue  eyes. 

**  Do  you  remember  the  days  of  our  childhood,  George,  when  we  played 


THE   NINTH   HOUR.  501 

together  on  the  hills  of  Valley  Forge  ?  Little  did  we  think  that  a  scene 
like  this  would  ever  come  to  pass  !  Here  I  stand,  the  rejected  lover — ha. 
ha !  the  British  officer  !  And  there  stands  the  betrothed  husband,  the 
Rebel  Spy  !  Ha,  ha,  ha  !" 

These  were  bitter  taunts  to  pass  between  a  living  and  a  dying  man  !  Yet 
there  was  something  in  the  words  and  look  of  Captain  Edam  that  revealed 
the  cause  of  all  his  ill-timed  mirth — he  was  a  rejected  lover.  His  success 
ful  rival  stood  before  him. 

No  word  passed  the  lips  of  George,  He  regarded  the  elegant  Captain 
with  a  calm  smile,  and  coolly  asked,  as  though  inquiring  the  dinner  hour — 
•*  How  many  minutes  before  I  am  to  be  hung  ?" 

"  You  carry  it  bravely  !"  laughed  the  Briton  ;  "  but  think  of  ISABEL  !" 

The  only  answer  which  escaped  the  lips  of  George,  was  a  solitary 
syllable : 

"  AL!"  he  said,  and  turned  his  smiling  face  upon  the  face  of  his  enemy. 

That  syllable  made  the  Briton  tremble  from  head  to  foot.  It  spoke  to 
himof  the  happy  days  of  old — of  the  green  hills  and  pleasant  dells  of  Valley 
Forge, — of  two  boys  who  were  sworn  friends — of  George  and  Algernon.  It 
also  spoke  of  a  laughing  girl,  who  was  the  cousin  of  Algernon,  the  beloi  ed 
of  George — Isabel ! 

For  that  name  was  the  familiar  diminutive  which  George  had  often  whis 
pered  in  the  ears  of  his  boy-friend,  Hinging  his  arms  about  his  neck,  and 
twir.ing  his  hands  in  his  golden  hair. 

u  AL,  don't  you  remember  the  day,  nine  years  and  nine  days  ago,  when 
in  the  presence  of  Isabel,  you  rescued  me  from  a  terrible  danger  ?" 

The  words,  the  tone,  the  look,  melted  the  heart  of  the  undaunted  Briton. 
There  is  a  magic  in  the  memory  of  childhood,  irresistible  as  a  voice  from 
the  lips  of  Death. 

«*  I  do,  George,  I  do  !"  he  cried  ;  "  and  now,  I  am  to  be  your — execu 
tioner  !" 

"  To-night,  is  my  wedding  night,  my  friend — " 

"  But  I  cannot  save  you  !"  gasped  Edam  ;  his  voice  now  deepened  with 
the  accent  of  irresistible  agony — "  we  are  surrounded — all  hope  is  vain." 

"  I  do  not  want  to  be  saved,"  said  George,  still  preserving  his  quiet 
manner  ;  "  let  me  be  put  to  death  as  suddenly  and  with  as  little  pain  as 
possible.  But  I  have  one  request.  When  I  am  dead  and  you  are  safe  in 
Philadelphia,  write  to  Washington,  and  tell  him,  that  I  died  like  a  man 
Write  to— Isabel — and  tell  her ' 

— A  large  tear  rolled  down  the  Ensign's  cheek.  The  Captain  struggled 
to  a  seat.  There  was  something  unnaturally  frightful  in  the  calmness  of 
the  doomed  man. 

"  Tell  her,  that — pure  and  beautiful  as  she  is — George  Murray  could 
never  have  made  her  life  a  life  of  peace  and  joy.  Tell  her  that  the  last 
words  which  he  spoke  were  these — '  Algernon  Edam  is  noble  in  heart. 


502  ROMANCE   OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

although  he  has  espoused  the  British  cause.    Wed  him,  Isabel,  for  he  lovct 
you — wed  him,  and  my  blessing  be  upon  you  !'  " 

The  Captain, — to  hide  the  agony  of  his  feelings,  uttered  a  horrible  oath 

•«  Why  cannot  I  aid  you  to  escape  ?"  he  cried,  wildly  pacing  the  room. 

"  You  can  aid  me  to  escape  !"  slowly  uttered  the  doomed  man. 

44  How  ?  Name  the  method  !  Quick — for  I  am  yours — yours  to  the 
death  ! 

"  You  can  aid  me  to  escape  from  this  horrible  dream  of  life  !"  exclaimed 
Murray,  lifting  his  brown  hair  with  his  delicate  hand — "  this  dream  which 
torments  me,  which  sits  upon  my  soul  like  a  nightmare,  which  makes  me 
shudder  at  the  idea  of  a  union  with  Jsabel !  O,  you  may  think  me  strange, 
mad  ! — but  talk  as  you  will,  my  friend,  1  feel  happier  than  I  have  felt  for 
years  !" 

While  Edam  stood  horrified  by  his  words,  he  removed  the  overcoat  and 
hat,  and  stood  revealed  in  his  wedding-dress. 

*•  I  thought  that  Brandy  wine  would  awaken  me  from  this  dream — O,  how 
hard  it  is  to  pursue  a  grave,  and  feel  it  glide  from  your  footsteps  !  It  was 
a  bloody  battle,  but  I  lived  !  Then,  in  the  darkest  hour  of  Germantown,  I 
saw  my  death  in  the  mists  before  me,  and  leaped  to  grasp  it,  but  in  vain ! 
Still  I  lived  !  The  day  of  my  marriage  wore  on,  and  there  was  no  resource 
but  suicide,  until  Washington  informed  me  of  this  enterprise.  Ah,  my  dear 
friend,  give  me  your  hand  ;  I  feel  very  calm,  aye,  happy  !" 

The  Briton,  or  rather  the  British  officer,  (for  by  birth  he  was  an  Ameri 
can,)  instantly  seized  the  slender  hand,  wrung  it,  and  swore  by  his  Maker 
that  he  should  not  die  ! 

An  expression,  as  strange  as  it  was  sudden,  darkened  the  pale  face  of  the 
doomed  man.  His  blue  eyes  emitted  wild  and  deadly  light.  Do  you  see 
him  start  forward,  his  slender  and  graceful  form  attired  in  his  wedding- 
dress,  his  rich  brown  hair  waving  from  his  shoulders  ?  He  seizes  Edam 
by  the  wrist. 

"  O,  Algernon,  were  my  bitterest  enemy  beneath  my  feet — one  who  had 
done  a  wrong  too  dark  for  mercy,  or  revenge — sooner  than  sever  his  heart 
with  my  knife,  I  would  bid  him  live  as  I  have  lived  for  years  /" 

There  is  nothing  in  language  to  picture  the  utter  horror  of  his  look  and  tone. 

Captain  Edam  was  dumb,  but  his  face  reflected  the  despair  of  George. 

"  O,  Algernon,  I  beseech  you  take  Isabel,  and  be  happy  with  her  !  At 
the  same  time  I  implore  you  aid  me  in  my  attempt  to  shake  off  this  night 
mare—  life  r 

Captain  Edam  sank  back  on  the  empty  keg,  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

You  can  see  Murray  stand  there  before  the  fire,  contemplating  him  with 
a  calm  smile. 

"  Hark  !  they  come  !"  cried  the  British  officer,  starting  to  his  feet  and 


THE    NINTH    HOUR.  503 

drawing  his  sword.     "  They  come  to  put  you  to  death,  but  ;iot  while  I  am 
alive." 

There  wag  the  sound  of  trampling  feet — a  confused  murmur — then  the 
thunder  of  many  rifle  shots  mingled  in  one  deafening  report,  broke  on  the 
silence  of  the  hour. 

George's  countenance  fell. 

«*  Stand  back  !"  shouted  Captain  Edam — "  approach  this  room,  and  I  will 
fire  !  Hark  !  Do  you  hear,  George  ?  They  dispute  among  themselves  ! 
There  is  a  division — we  must  save  you  !  Do  you  hear  those  shouts  ?" 

As  he  spoke,  the  door  opened,  and  there,  on  the  threshhold,  stood  a  bluff, 
hearty  figure,  attired  in  the  Continental  uniform. 

"  The  Gineral  sent  me  on  your  track  !"  exclaimed  the  hoarse  voice  of 
Sergeant  Caleb.  "  The  Tories  is  captured  and  you  are  saved,  you  dare 
devil  of  an  Ensign  !  I  say,  Mister,  in  the  red  jacket,  won't  you  give  up 
your  sword  ?" 

As  the  honest  veteran  received  the  sword  of  Captain  Edam,  George 
turned  aside  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  while  his  whole  frame  shook 
with  emotion,  with  agony. 

"  Foiled  again  !     '  Nine  years,  nine  days  /'      I  must  submit — it  is  Fate 
The  ninth  hour  is  near!     Ah  !  why  is  death  denied  to  me  ?" 

The  old  clock  in  the  hall  smiled  in  the  light,  its  minute  hand  pointing  to 
30,  its  hour  hand  to  9. 

The  wedding  guests  were  assembled.  Far  over  the  frozen  snow,  from 
every  window,  gushed  a  stream  of  joyous  light. 

Grouped  in  the  most  spacious  apartment  of  Squire  Musgrave's  mansion 
the  wedding  guests  presented  a  sight  of  some  interest. 

The  light  of  those  tall  wax  candles  was  upon  their  faces. 

Washington  was  there,  towering  above  the  heads  of  other  men,  his  mag 
nificent  form  clad  in  the  blue  coat  and  buff  vest,  with  his  sword  by  his  side. 
By  his  side,  the  high  brow  and  eagle  eye  of  Anthony  Wayne.  Yonder,  a 
gallant  cavalier,  attired  in  the  extreme  of  fashion,  with  a  mild  blue  eye,  and 
clustered  locks  of  sand-hued  hair — the  chivalrous  La  Fayette  ! 

And  there,  standing  side  by  side,  were  two  young  men,  engaged  in  affa 
ble  conversation. 

One,  with  a  high  forehead,  deeply  indented  between  the  brows — the  other, 
a  man  of  slender  frame,  with  a  delicately-chiselled  face,  and  eyes  that  seem 
to  burn  you,  as  he  speaks,  in  that  low,  soft  voice,  which  wins  your  soul. 

Who,  that  beholds  these  young  men,  calmly  conversing  together,  on  this 
wedding-night,  would  dream  that  one  was  destined  to  die  by  the  other's 
nand.  For  the  one  with  the  deeply-indented  brow  is  Alexander  Hamilton, 
the  other,  with  the  sculptured  face,  and  magical  eyes  and  voice,  is  Aaron  Burr 

In  the  centre  of  the  scene  stood  a  group,  the  objects  of  every  eye 


504  ROMANCE    OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

The  Preacher  in  his  dark  gown,  on  one  side  ;  the  good-humored  Squire, 
with  his  jocund  face  and  corpulent  form,  on  the  other. 

Between  them,  under  that  chandelier,  which  warms  their  faces  with  » 
mild  light,  stand  the  bride  and  briegroom. 

She,  in  a  dress  of  stainless  white  satin,  which  displays  the  beautiful  out 
lines  of  her  bust  and  waist,  and  by  its  short  skirt  permits  you  to  behold 
those  small  feet,  encased  in  delicate  slippers.  Her  neck,  her  shoulderi, 
gleam  like  alabaster  in  the  light.  A  single  ornament — a  cross  of  diamonds 
and  gold — suspended  from  the  neck,  rises  and  falls  with  every  pulsation  of 
her  heart.  And  from  the  flowing  world  of  her  dark  hair,  which  freely 
courses  from  her  brow  to  the  shoulders,  looks  out  a  face,  at  once  young, 
innocent,  angelic  ! 

Ev«r  and  again,  glancing  sidelong,  she  turns  her  large  eyes  towards  the 
bridegroom,  while  a  soft  crimson  flushes  imperceptibly  over  her  face. 

The  bridegroom  is  very  pale,  but  calm  and  sedate.  His  dark  blue  eyes 
gleaming  from  the  pallor  of  that  delicately  chiselled  face,  return  the  glance 
of  his  bride  with  a  look  at  once  earnest  and  indefinable.  Is  it  love  ? — or 
love  mingled  with  intense  pity  ?  What  means  that  scarce  perceptible  quiv 
ering  of  the  nether  lip  ? 

The  words  of  the  Preacher  are  said.  George  presses  the  husband's  kiss 
on  the  lips  of  his  bride.  Why  does  Isabel — surrendering  all  the  graceful 
beauty  of  her  waist  to  the  pressure  of  his  arm — start  and  tremble,  as  she 
feels  those  lips,  now  hot  as  with  fever,  now  cold  as  with  death  ? 

At  this  moment,  through  the  interval  made  by  the  parting  guests,  advances 
the  form  of  WASHINGTON — that  face,  which  never  yet  has  been  painted  by 
artist,  or  described  by  poet,  beaming  with  a  paternal  smile,  those  dark  grey 
eyes,  which  shone  so  fiercely  in  the  hour- of  battle,  now  gazing  in  softened 
regard,  upon  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride. 

The  voice  of  Washington  was  heard  : 

"  George,  when  your  father  breathed  his  last,  in  my  arms,  amid  the  hor 
rors  of  battle — it  was  at  Trenton — with  his  parting  breath,  he  besought  me 
to  be  a  father  to  his  son  !  How  can  I  better  fulfil  my  trust,  than  by  placing 
your  hand  within  the  hand  of  a  beautiful  and  innocent  woman,  and  bidding 
you  be  happy  together  ?  She" — he  turned  to  the  bridegroom — "  is  worthy 
of  a  soldier's  love.  He," — turning  to  the  bride — "  he  is  a  soldier,  a  little 
rash,  perchance,  but  brave  as  the  summer  day  is  long !" 

He  placed  their  hands  together,  and  kindly  looked  from  face  to  face. 
Every  eye  was  centred  upon  this  interesting  group. 

Here,  Washington,  tall  and  commanding ;  on  one  side  the  bridegroom, 
slender,  almost  effeminate,  yet  with  courage  and  manhood  written  on  his 
face  ;  on  the  other — a  beautiful  and  sinless  girl !  What  words  can  describe 
the  last? 

At  this  moment  the  jocund  voice  of  the  father,  good-hearted,  bluff  Squirn 


THE    NINTH   HOUR.  505 

Musgrave,  was  heard.  With  a  jovial  smile  upon  his  round  and  crimson 
face  he  advanced. 

"  Look  ye,  George,"  he  said.  "  Now  that  you're  married,  you  must 
conform  to  a  custom  in  our  family.  Never  a  Musgrave  was  wedded  but 
the  silver  goblet  and  the  old  wine  were  brought  forth,  and  a  royal  bumper 
drank  to  the  bride  by  all  the  guests.  You  dont't  stand  precisely  in  the 
light  of  a  guest — eh,  George  ?  ha  !  ha  !  But  you  must  begin  the  ceremony  !" 

As  he  spoke,  a  servant  in  livery  appeared  with  a  salver,  on  which  was 
placed  a  venerable  bottle,  dark  in  the  body,  red  about  the  neck,  and  wreathed 
in  cobwebs.  Thirty  year  old  Madeira.  By  its  side  a  silver  goblet,  antique 
in  shape,  carved  with  all  manner  of  fawns  and  flowers. 

In  a  moment  this  goblet  was  filled  ;  from  its  capacious  bowl  flashed  the 
red  gleam  of  rich  old  wine. 

"  Drink,  George  !     A  royal  bumper  to  the  health  of  the  bride  !" 

The  movement  of  George  were  somewhat  singular.  Every  one  remarked 
the  fact.  As  the  bluff  old  Squire  extended  the  goblet,  George  reached  forth 
his  hand,  fixing  his  blue  eyes,  with  a  strange  stare,  upon  the  crimson  wine. 
Then  a  shudder  shook  his  frame,  and  communicated  its  tremor  to  the 
goblet. 

He  seized  it — as  with  the  grasp  of  despair,  or  as  a  soldier  precipitated 
from  a  fortress  might  clutch  the  naked  blade  of  a  sword,  to  stay  his  fall — 
liis  blue  eyes  dilating  all  the  while  he  raised  it  to  his  lips. 

His  face  was  mirrored,  there  in  the  tremulous  ripplets  of  the  goblet,  when, 
as  his  lip  was  about  to  press  its  brim,  his  arm  slowly  straightened  outward 
from  his  body,  his  fingers  slowly  parted,  each  one  stiffening  like  a  finger 
of  marble. 

The  goblet  fell  to  the  floor. 

George  seemed  making  a  violent  effort  to  control  his  agitation.  That  lip 
pressed  between  his  teeth  until  a  single  blood  drop  came,  the  eyes  wildly 
rolling  from  face  to  face,  the  hands  nervously  extended. —  Was  ever  the  last 
moment  of  a  dying  man  as  terrible  as  this  ? 

He  sank  on  one  knee— slowly,  slowly  to  the  floor ;  he  sank  as  though 
the  blood  were  freezing  in  his  veins. 

No  words  can  picture  the  surprise,  the  horror,  the  awe  of  the  wedding 
guests. 

Do  you  see  that  circle  of  faces,  all  pale  as  death,  with  every  eye  fixed 
upon  the  kneeling?  Do  you  behold  the  young  girl,  who  faints  not  nor 
falters,  in  this  hour  of  peril,  but,  with  a  face  white  as  the  snow,  firmly  ex 
tends  her  hand,  and  calls  her  husband  tenderly  by  name  ? 

For  a  moment  all  was  terribly  still. 

At  last  he  raised  his  head.  He  gazed  upon  her  with  eyes  unnaturally 
dilated,  and  whispered  in  a  tone  that  pierced  every  heart — 

"  Isabel — I  would  speak  with  you  alone." 

She  raised  him  from  the  floor,  and  girding  his  waist  with  her  arm,  led 

32 


606  ROMANCE    OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

nim  toward  the  next  room.  Had  she  been  a  fine  lady  she  would  have 
fainted,  or  shrieked,  but,  Heaven  be  blessed,  was  a  Woman.  One  of  those 
women  whose  character  is  not  known,  until  Adversity,  like  a  holy  angel, 
reveals  its  heroic  firmness  and  divine  tenderness. 

She  closed  the  folding  doors  after  her ;  the  bride  and  bridegroom  weiu 
gone  into  the  next  chamber. 

For  half  an  hour,  in  silent  awe, — not  a  word  spoken,  not  a  sound  heard, 
but  the  gasping  of  deep-drawn  breath — the  wedding  guests  waited  there, 
gazing  on  the  closed  folding  doors. 

It  was  an  half  hour  of  terrible  suspense. 

As  the  clock  struck  nine  Washington  advanced.  "  I  can  bear  this  no 
longer,"  he  said,  and  pushed  open  the  folding  doors. 

Ere  we  gaze  upon  the  sight  he  beheld,  let  us  follow  the  footsteps  of 
George  and  Isabel. 

As  she  led  him  through  the  doorway  into  that  large  chamber,  filled  with 
antique  furniture,  and  lighted  by  a  single  candle,  standing  before  a  mirror 
on  a  table  of  mosaic  work,  Isabel  felt  the  hand  which  she  grasped,  covered 
with  a  clammy  moisture  like  the  sweat  of  death. 

Before  that  large,  old-fashioned  mirror,  in  which  the  light  was  dimly  re 
flected, — like  a  distant  star  shining  from  an  intensely  dark  sky, — they  sank 
down  on  chairs  that  were  placed  near  each  other,  George  clinging  to  the 
hand  of  his  bride  as  to  his  last  hope. 

"  The  thing  which  I  feared  has  come  upon  me  !"  he  gasped,  speaking 
the  pathetic  language  of  Scipture — u  Isabel,  place  your  hand  upon  my  brow, 
and  hear  me.  The  time  alotted  to  me  is  short :  it  rapidly  glides  away. 
And  while  you  listen,  do  not,  ha,  ha  !  do  not  smile  if  in  the  tragedy  of  my 
life  the  grotesque  mingles  with  the  terrible  !" 

One  hand  with  his  own,  one  upon  his  brow,  the  brave  girl  listened.  His 
words  were  few  and  concise  : 

"  Many  years  ago,  when  we  were  children,  Isabel,  on  a  cold,  clear 
winter's  day,  we  wandered  forth  in  the  cheerless  woods,  you  and  I,  and 
Algernon.  My  favorite  dog — you  remember  him  ? — was  with  us  ?  Do 
you  also  remember " 

Ah,  that  hollow  voice,  that  unnatural  smile  !  How  well  did  Isabel 
remember. 

"  Suddenly  the  favorite — old  Wolfe,  you  know  he  was  named  after  the 
brave  General — turned  upon  me,  fixed  his  teeth  in  my  arm,  and  lacerated 
the  flesh  to  the  bone.  Algernon  struck  him  down " 

Isabel  felt  that  brow  grow  like  iron  beneath  her  touch. 

"  It  was  long  before  the  wound  was  healed,  but  the  dog,  in  a  few  days, 
died,  raging  mad.  Now  mark  you,  Isabel,  another  circumstance.  Per 
chance  you  remember  it  also  ?  While  my  wound  was  most  painful,  there 
came  to  your  father's  house  an  aged  woman,  who  was  noted  for  her  skill  in 


THE    NINTH    HOUR.  507 

the  healing  of  injuries  like  this.  She  was  also  regarded  by  the  country 
people  as  a  witch — a  corceress  !  Is  it  not  laughable,  Isabel  ? — that  a  poor 
old  creature  like  this,  regarded  by  some  as  an  Indian,  by  others  as  a  Negro, 
phould  have  such  a  strange  influence  upon  my  life  ?  She  healed  the  wound, 
but,  at  the  same  time,  whispered  in  my  ear  the  popular  superstition,  that  a 
person  bitten  by  a  rabid  dog,  would  go  mad  on  the  ninth  hour  of  the  ninth 
day  of  the  ninth  year  !  Child  as  I  was,  I  laughed  at  her  words.  Time 
passed  on  ;  days,  months,  years  glided  away.  Need  I  tell  you  how  this 
popular  superstition  fastened  on  my  mind  until  it  became  a  prophecy  ? 
Perchance  the  poison,  communicated  by  the  fang  of  the  dog,  was  already 
working  in  my  veins,  perchance — but  why  multiply  words  ?  This  awful 
fear  gradually  poisoned  my  whole  existence  ;  it  drove  me  from  my  books 
into  the  army.  I  began  to  thirst  for  death.  I  sought  him  in  every  battle ; 
O,  how  terrible  '  to  long  for  death  that  cometh  not !'  For  I  was  always 
haunted  by  a  fear — not  merely  the  fear  of  going  mad,  but  the  fear  of  the 
*  ninth  day  of  the  ninth  year' — the  fear  of  dying  a  death  at  once  horrible 
and  grotesque — dying  like  a  venomous  beast,  my  form  torn  by  convulsions, 
my  reason  crushed,  my  last  breath  howling  forth  a  yell  of  horrible  laughter — " 

He  paused  ;  you  would  not  have  liked  to  gaze  upon  his  face.  You 
would  rather  have  faced  a  charge  of  bayonets  than  heard  his  voice.  There 
was  something  horrible,  not  so  much  in  the  stillness  of  that  dimly-lighted 
room,  nor  altogether  in  the  contortions  of  his  face,  the  fire  of  his  eye,  the  deep 
conviction  of  his  voice,  but  in  the  idea, — a  noble  mind,  a  brave  heart,  crushed 
by  a  mere  superstition  !  A  young  life  forever  darkened  by  an  idle  halluci 
nation  !  An  immortal  soul  tortured  by  unmeaning  words,  uttered  years 
ago,  in  the  dewy  childhood  time  ! 

"  Isabel  !"  gasped  the  wretched  bridegroom,  "  in  a  moment,  yonder  clock 
will  strike  the  hour  of  nine  !  At  that  hour,  the  end  of  all  this  agony  will 
come  !  Hideously  transformed,  I  will  writhe  at  your  feet  !" 

How  acted  then,  this  innocent  and  guileless  girl,  who  had  grown  to  be 
witching  womanhood  amid  the  hills  and  dells  of  Valley  Forge  I 

Hers  was  not  the  skill  to  argue  this  question  in  a  philosophical  manner. 

True,  she  had  heard  of  great  minds  being  haunted  all  their  lives  by  a 
horrible  fear.  Some,  the  fear  of  being  buried  alive — some,  the  fear  of  going 
mad — some,  the  fear  of  dying  of  loathsome  disease. 

But  it  was  not  her  knowledge  of  these  fancies — these  monomanias  of  the 
strong-hearted — that  moved  her  into  action  at  this  hour. 

It  was  her  woman's  heart  that  whispered  to  her  soul  a  strange  but  fixed 
resolve. 

"  As  the  clock  strikes  nine,  you  will  go  mad,"  she  said.  "  This  is  Ui6 
idea  that  has  haunted  your  life  for  years.  It  was  this  that  forced  the  goblet 
from  your  lips,  palsied  your  hand  and  dashed  the  wine  to  the  floor  !  But 
if  your  reason  survives  the  hour  of  nine  ?  Then  the  danger  will  be  over  ? 
Speak  George,  is  it  so  ?' 


508  ROMANCE    OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

"  It  is,"  he  gasped  ;  "  but  there  is  no  hope — " 

The  word  had  not  passed  his  lips,  when  she  tore  one  hand  from  nia 
grasp,  removed  the  other  to  his  brow.  Outspreading  her  arms,  she  wound 
them  round  his  neck,  and  buried  his  face  upon  her  bosom. 

The  clock  began  to  strike  the  hour  of  nine. 

Closer  she  clasped  him,  convulsively  pressing  his  face  to  her  breast — as 
to  a  holy  shrine — until  he  felt  her  heart  beating  against  his  cheek, 

"  Now,  God  help  me !"  she  prayed,  and  reaching  forth  her  left  hand, 
grasped  a  glass  which  stood  upon  the  Mosaic  table.  It  was  filled  with 
water,  fresh  and  sparkling,  from  the  brook. 

Look !  she  raises  his  head,  gazes  intently  in  his  face.  Ah  !  she  winds 
her  right  arm  closer  about  his  neck,  and  with  those  eyes  earnestly,  intensely 
fixed  upon  his  face,  she  holds  the  glass  to  his  lips. 

'*  Drink,  George,  and  fear  not !    If  you  love  me,  drink  !" 

Feeble  words  these,  when  spoken  again,  but  had  you  heard  her  speak, 
or  but  seen  the  overwhelming  love  of  her  young  eyes  ! 

A  nervous  shudder  shakes  his  frame.  He  shrinks  from  the  glass.  But 
he  sees  her  eyes,  he  feels  her  voice,  he  extends  his  hand  and  drinks. 

The  clock  has  struck  the  last  knell  of  the  fatal  hour. 

He  drinks  !  She,  gazing  earnestly,  with  her  face  and  heart  fixed  on  him, 
all  the  while,  he  drinks. 

"  Now,"  she  whispers,  while  her  warm  fingers  tremble  gently  over  his 
cheeks.  "  Now,  George,  speak  to  me  '  It  is  past !  You  love  me  ?  You 
dr  mk  for  my  sake  !  For  my  sake  you  conquered  this  fatal  idea.  Speak, 
apsak — is  it  past  ?" 

He  rose  from  his  chair — his  face  changed,  as  a  cloud  seemed  to  pass 
from  his  breast — he  gazed  upon  her  with  tearful  eyes,  and  then  exclaimed 
in  a  tone  that  came  like  music  to  her  soul : 

"  Isabel,  more  than  life  you  have  saved  !     My  reason  ;  you — " 

He  could  speak  no  more.     His  heart  was  too  full.     His  joy  too  deep. 

So,  spreading  forth  his  arms — as  the  horror  of  years  rushed  upon  hi* 
•oul — he  fell  weeping  on  her  bosom. 

That  was  the  sight  which  the  unfolded  doors  revealed  to  WASHINGTON  ' 


THE  PREACHER. GENERAL.  509 


IV.— THE  PREACHER-GENERAL. 

TT  was  a  beautiful  picture,  that  quaint  old  country  church,  with  its  rustic 
steeple  and  grey  walls,  nestling  there  in  the  centre  of  a  green  valley,  with 
the  blue  sky  above,  and  a  grass-grown  grave-yard  all  around  it. 

It  was  indeed  a  fine  old  church,  that  Chapel  of  St.  John,  and  in  the 
quietude  of  the  summer  noon,  when  not  a  cloud  marred  the  surface  of  the 
heavens,  not  a  breeze  ruffled  the  repose  of  the  grave-yard  grass.  It  seemed 
like  a  place  where  holy  men  might  pray  and  praise,  without  an  earthly  care, 
a  worldly  thought. 

The  valley  itself  was  beautiful ;  one  of  the  fairest  of  the  green  va^eys 
of  the  Old  Dominion.  A  slope  of  meadow,  dotted  with  trees,  a  stream  of 
clear  cold  water,  winding  along  its  verge,  under  the  shadow  of  grey  rocks  ; 
to  the  east  a  waving  mass  of  woodland  ;  to  the  west  a  chain  of  rolling  hills, 
with  the  blue  tops  of  the  Alleghanies  seen  far  away  !  Was  it  not  a  lovely 
valley,  with  the  quaint  old  church,  smiling  in  its  lap,  like  a  Pilgrim,  who, 
having  journeyed  afar,  came  here  to  rest  for  a  while,  amid  green  fields  and 
swelling  hills  ! 

It  was  a  Sabbath  noon,  in  the  dark  time  of  the  Revolution.  Fear  was 
abroad  in  the  land,  yet  here,  to  the  good  old  church,  came  young  and  old, 
rich  and  poor,  to  listen  to  the  words  of  life,  and  break  the  bread  of  God. 

Yonder,  under  the  rude  shed,  you  may  see  the  wagon  of  the  farmer,  and 
the  carriage  of  the  rich  man  ;  or  looking  along  this  line  of  trees,  you  may 
behold  the  saddled  horses,  waiting  for  their  masters.  All  is  silent  without 
the  church  ;  a  deep  solemnity  rests  upon  the  sabbath  hour. 

Within  !  Ah,  here  is  indeed  an  impressive  spectacle.  Through  the 
deep-silled  windows  pours  the  noon-day  sun,  softened  by  the  foliage  of  trees. 
Above  is  the  dark  ceiling,  supported  by  heavy  rafters  ;  yonder  the  altar, 
with  the  cross  and  sacred  letters,  I.  H.  S.,  gleaming  in  the  light ;  and  all 
around,  you  behold  the  earnest  faces  of  the  crowded  assemblage. 

Tha  prayers  have  been  said,  those  prayers  of  the  Episcopal  church, 
w'lich,  gathered  from  the  Book  of  God,  flow  forever  in  a  fountain  of  ever 
lasting  beauty  in  ten  thousand  hearts — the  prayers  have  been  said,  the 
hymn-notes  have  died  away,  and  now  every  voice  is  hushed,  every  face  is 
stamped  with  a  marble  stillness. 

A  few  moments  pass,  and  then  behold  this  picture  : 

Old  men  and  young  maidens  are  kneeling  around  the  altar — yes,  the  forms 
of  robust  manhood  and  mature  womanhood  are  prostrate  there.  Along  the 
railing,  which  describes  a  cresent  around  the  altar,  they  throng  with  heads 
bent  low  a«d  hands  clasped  fervently. 

They  are  about  to  drink  the  Wine  of  the  Redeemer — to  eat  the  bread 
of  God. 

Is  it  not  a  lovely  scene  ?     The  white  hairs  of  the  old  men,  the  brown 


510  ROMANCE    OF    THE    REVOLUTION. 

tresses  of  the  young  girls,  the  sunhurnt  visages  of  those  well-formed  young 
men,  the  calm  faces  of  the  matrons,  all  touched  by  the  flitting  sunbeam. 

Look !  Amid  that  throng  a  dusky  negro  kneels,  his  swart  visage  seen 
amid  the  pale  faces  of  his  white  brethren. 

All  is  silent  in  the  church.  Those  who  do  not  come  to  the  altar,  kneei 
in  reverence,  and  yonder  you  may  see  the  slaves,  clustering  beside  the 
church-porch,  with  uncovered  heads  and  forms  bent  in  prayer. 

All  is  silent  in  the  church,  and  the  Sacrament  begins. 

The  Preacher  stands  there,  within  the  railing,  with  the  silver  goblet 
gleaming  in  one  hand,  while  the  other  extends  the  plate  of  consecrated 
bread. 

His  tall  form,  clad  in  the  flowing  robes  of  his  office,  towers  erect,  far 
above  the  heads  of  the  kneeling  men  and  women,  while  his  bold  counten 
ance,  with  high  brow,  and  clear  dark  eyes,  strikes  you  with  an  impression 
of  admiration.  He  is  a  noble  looking  man,  with  an  air  of  majesty,  without 
pride  ;  intellect,  without  vanity  ;  devotion,  without  cant. 

Tell  me,  as  he  moves  along  yonder,  dispensing  the  wine  and  bread,  while 
his  deep,  full  voice,  fills  the  church  with  the  holy  words  of  the  Sacrament 
— tell  me,  does  he  not  honor  his  great  office,  this  Preacher  of  noble  look 
and  gleaming  eyes  ? 

Look  !  how  fair  hands  are  reached  forth  to  grasp  the  cup,  how  manly 
heads  bow  low,  as  the  bread  of  life  passes  from  lip  to  lip.  Not  much 
whining  here,  not  much  strained  mockery  of  devotion,  but  in  every  face 
you  see  the  tokens  of  a  sincere  and  honest  religion. 

The  Preacher  passes  along,  bending  low,  as  he  places  the  goblet  to  the 
red  lips  of  yonder  maiden,  or  extends  the  bread  to  the  white-haired  man  by 
her  side.  Meanwhile,  his  sonorous  voice  fills  the  church  : 

Jind  as  they  were  eating,  JESUS  took  bread  and  blessed  it,  ana 

break  it,  and  gave  is  to  his  disciples,  and  said,  Take,  eat,  this  is  my  body. 

Jind  he  took  the  cup,  and  gave  thanks,  and  gave  it  to  them,  saying, 
Drink  ye  all  of  it,  for  this  is  my  blood  of  the  New  Testament,  which  is 
shed  for  many,  for  the  remission  of  sins. — — 

As  you  gaze  upon  the  scene,  a  holy  memory  seizes  upon  your  soul. 

The  quiet  church,  the  earnest  faces  of  the  spectators,  the  sunlight  steal 
ing  through  the  deep-silled  windows,  over  the  group  of  kneeling  men  and 
women,  who,  in  this  time  of  blood  and  war,  have  met  to  celebrate  the 
Supper  of  the  Lord,  the  tall  Preacher  passing  before  the  altar,  the  goblel 
gleaming  in  his  hand — This  is  the  scene  which  is  now  present  with  you. 

The  memory  ? 

Ah,  that  is  of  a  far-gone  day,  some  seventeen  centuries  ago,  when  in  the 
fragrant  chamber  of  Jerusalem,  Jesus  looked  around  with  his  eyes  of  eternal 
love,  and  shared  the  cup  and  bread  with  his  faithful  Eleven,  while  beloved 
John  looked  silently  inlo  his  face,  and  black-browed  Judas  scowled  at  his 
shoulder.  Yes,  the  Memory  seizes  upon  you  now,  and  you  hear  his  tones 


THE   PREACHER-GENERAL.  511 

yor  see  his  face,  the  low  deep  tones  flowing  with  eternal  music,  the  face 
of  God-head,  with  its  eyes  of  unutterable  beauty. 

Now  the  Sacrament  is  over,  yet  still  the  men  and  women  are  kneeling 
there. 

The  Preacher  advances,  and  stands  in  front  of  his  people,  with  the  silver 
cup  in  his  hand.  A  slight  breeze  ruffles  the  folds  of  his  robes,  and  tosses 
his  dark  hair  back  from  his  brow. 

He  is  about  to  speak  on  a  subject  of  deep  interest,  for  his  lip  is  com 
pressed,  his  brow  wears  a  look  of  gloom.  Every  man,  woman  and  child 
in  that  crowded  church,  listens  intently  for  his  first  word  ;  the  negroes  come 
crowding  around  the  church-porch  ;  the  communicants  look  up  from  their 
prayers. 

The  words  of  the  Preacher  were  uttered  in  a  tone  that  thrilled  every  heart  : 

«*  There  is  a  time  to  preach,  to  pray,  to  fight !"  He  paused,  looking  from 
face  to  face,  with  his  flashing  eyes. 

*•  The  time  to  preach  is  gone,  the  time  to  pray  is  past,  the  time  to  fight 
has  come  !" 

You  could  see  his  stature  dilate,  his  eye  fire,  as  he  thundered  through 
the  church — "  the  time  to  fight  has  come  .'" 

The  silver  goblet  shook  in  his  quivering  hands.  With  one  impulse  the 
congregation  started  to  their  feet.  With  the  same  movement  the  kneeling 
communicants  arose.  These  strange  words  burned  like  fire-coals  at  every 
heart. 

"  Yes,"  thundered  the  Preacher,  "  Yes,  my  brethren,  when  we  preach 
again,  it  must  be  with  the  sword  by  our  side — when  we  pray,  it  must  be 
with  the  rifle  in  our  hands  !  I  say  the  time  to  fight  has  come  !  for  at  this 
hour  your  land  is  red  with  innocent  blood,  poured  forth  by  the  hirelings  of 
the  British  King.  For  at  this  moment  the  voices  of  dead  men  call  from  the 
battlefields,  and  call  to  you  !  They  call  you  forth  to  the  defence  of  your 
homes,  your  wives  and  little  ones  !  At  this  moment,  while  the  noonday 
sun  falls  calmly  on  your  faces,  the  voices  of  your  brothers  in  arms  pierce 
this  lonely  valley,  and  bid  you  seize  the  rifle,  for  your  country  and  your 
God!" 

Bold  words  were  these,  majestic  the  bearing  of  the  Preacher,  fierce  as 
flame-coals  his  look,  eloquent  his  ringing  voice  ! 

A  deep  murmur  swelled  through  the  church — a  wild,  ominous  sound — and 
then  all  was  still  again. 

"  My  brethren,  we  have  borne  this  massacre  long  enough.  Now,  our 
country,  our  God,  our  dead  brethren  call  on  us.  Now,  our  wives  look  in 
our  faces  and  wonder  why  we  delay  to  seize  the  sword  ,  nay,  our  little  ones 
appeal  to  us  for  protection  against  the  robber  and  assassin.  Come,  my 
friends,  I  have  preached  with  you,  prayed  with  you — with  you  I  have  eaten 
the  Saviour's  body  and  drank  his  blood.  Now,  by  the  blessing  or  God,  I 
will  lead  you  to  battle.  Come,  in  the  name  of  that  °ountry  which 


512  ROMANCE    OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

bleeds  beneath  the  Invaders  feet — in  the  name  of  the  dead  who  gave  thei* 
Fives  in  this  holy  cause — in  the  name  of  the  God  who  made  you,  and  the 
Savioui  who  redeemed  you — I  say  come  !  To  arms  !  The  time  to  fight 
is  here  !" 

Did  you  ever  see  the  faces  of  a  crowd  change,  like  the  hues  of  the  ocean 
in  a  storm  ?  Did  you  ever  hear  the  low,  deep,  moaning  of  that  ocean,  when 
the  storm  is  about  to  break  over  its  bosom  ? 

Then  may  you  have  some  idea  of  the  wild  agitation  which  ran  like 
electric  fire,  through  this  quaint  old  Chapel  of  St.  John,  as  the  preacher 
stood  erect,  with  the  goblet  held  in  his  extendnd  hand,  his  brow  flushed  with 
a  warm  glow,  and  his  eyes  gleaming  fire. 

"  The  time  to  fight  is  here,"  he  said,  as  with  a  sudden  movement  he 
flung  his  sacerdotal  robe  from  his  form,  and  stood  disclosed  before  his  con 
gregation,  arrayed  in  warrior  costume. 

Yes,  from  head  to  foot,  his  proud  form  was  clad  in  the  blue  uniform  of 
the  Continental  host,  while  the  pistols  protruded  from  his  belt,  and  the 
sword  shone  by  his  side. 

At  that  sight,  a  murmur  arose,  a  wild  hurrah  shook  the  church. 
"  To  arms  !"  arose  like  thunder  on  the  Sabbath  air. 
And  then  there  was  one  wild  impulse  quivering  through  each  manly 
breast,  as  though  each  heart  beat  with  the  same  pulsation.  They  came 
rushing  forward,  those  robust  forms  ;  they  clustered  around  the  altar,  eagerly 
reaching  forth  their  hands  to  sign  the  paper  which  the  Preacher  laid  upon 
the  Sacramental  table.  In  that  crowd  were  old  men  with  white  hair,  and 
boys  with  beardless  chins,  all  moved  by  the  impulse  of  the  hour.  The 
women,  too,  were  there  urging  their  brothers,  their  husbands,  to  sign  their 
names  to  the  Preacher's  muster-roll,  and  become  soldiers  for  their  Country 
and  their  God. 

The  sunlight  fell  over  the  wild  array  of  faces,  glowing  with  emotion,  and 
re  realed  the  light  forms  of  the  women  passing  through  the  crowd,  while  the 
Pieacher  stood  alone,  with  the  paper  in  one  hand  and  his  good  sword  in 
tlic  other. 

Softly  came  the  summer  breeze  through  the  windows  ;  brilliantly  in  the 
sunlight  glittered  the  Cross  and  the  holy  letters — I.  H.  S. 

Still  the  Preacher  stood  there,  that  proud  flash  upon  his  brow,  that  deep 
satisfactian  gleaming  from  his  dark  eye. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  gazing  upon  the  stout  forms  which  encompassed  him 
ike  a  wall,  "  now  let  us  pray  God's  blessing  on  our  swords  !' 
As  one  man  they  knelt. 

The  Preacher,  attired  as  he  was  in  the  blue  and  buff  uniform,  knelt  in 
their  midst,  clasping  his  sword  in  his  hand,  while  his  deep  voice  arose  in 
prayer  to  God. 

That  night,  through  a  road  that  led  between  high  rocks,  three  hundrea 


THE    PREACHER-GENERAL.  513 

brave   men,  mounted  on   gallant   steeds,  went  forth  to  join   the  Army  of 
Washington. 

At  their  head,  riding  a  grey  steed,  his  tall  form  clad  in  the  blue  and  buff 
uniform,  was  their  leader,  who,  with  compressed  lip  and  gleaming  eye,  led 
them  on  to  battle. 

It  was  the  darkest  hour  of  the  battle  of  Germantown,  when  a  gallant 
warrior,  clad  in  the  Continental  uniform  and  mounted  on  a  grey  steed,  was 
surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  Britiah  soldiers. 

All  day  long,  that  American  General  had  gone  through  the  ranks  of  battle, 
at  the  head  of  his  brave  men.  Side  by  side  with  Washington  and  Wayne, 
he  had  rushed  upon  the  the  British  bayonets.  One  by  one,  he  had  seen  his 
gallant  band  measure  their  graves  upon  the  fatal  field.  Now  he  was  alorfi, 
the  last  in  the  dread  retreat. 

All  around  was  smoke  and  mist.  Chew's  house  was  seen  to  the  ea»t, 
looming  grandly  through  the  gloom.  The  American  army  were  in  full  »e- 
treat,  while  this  solitary  warrior,  mounted  on  his  grey  war-horse,  looking 
from  side  to  side,  beheld  nothing  but  scarlet  uniforms  and  British  bayonets. 
At  his  back,  toward  the  North,  was  a  high  wall,  built  of  massive  stone,  a 
wall  the  most  gallant  steed  might  essay  to  leap  in  vain.  That  warrio/s 
horse  was  brave,  his  blood  was  full  of  fire,  but  he  recoiled  from  that  terrible 
leap. 

The  soldier  on  the  grey  steed  was  a  prisoner. 

The  British  encircled  him,  their  bayonets  pointed  at  his  breast,  while  his 
dark  eye  moved  from  face  to  face. 

A  soldier  advanced  to  secure  the  victim  ;  he  was  a  gallant  fellow,  his 
brown  hair  waving  in  thick  curls  around  his  ruddy  face.  He  advanced, 
when  the  American  soldier  gazed  in  his  face  with  a  look  of  deep  compas 
sion,  and  muttered  a  prayer.  The  hand  of  the  Briton  was  extended  to  grasp 
the  bridle  rein  of  the  grey  steed,  when  the  American  suddenly  drew  his 
pistol  from  the  holster,  and  fired. 

A  moment  passed — the  smoke  cleared  away.  There,  on  the  moist  earth, 
bleeding  slowly  to  death,  lay  the  handsome  Briton but  the  prisoner  ? 

Look  yonder  to  the  South  !  There,  through  the  folds  of  mist,  you  may 
see  the  grey  horse  and  his  rider.  Bullets  whistle  in  the  air,  but  he  does 
not  fall.  Still  the  gallant  steed  keeps  on  his  career.  Right  through  the 
British  Army,  right  through  the  hail  of  lead,  and  the  gleam  of  bayonets, 
dashes  the  grey  war-horse,  the  mist  wreathing  like  a  cloak  around  his 
rider's  form. 

Now  he  turns,  yes,  to  the  North  again.  The  band  of  soldiers  look  up 
from  the  corse  of  their  dead  comrade,  and  behold  the  American  soldier 
dashing  along  the  road,  ngh .  in  front  of  their  path.  They  raise  their  mu«- 
quets — they  fire  The  American  soldier  looks  back  and  smiles,  and 
passes  on. 


fill  ROMANCE    OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

The  white  cloud  receives  him  into  its  folds. 

Yet  lo  !  As  he  passes  on  through  smoke  and  mist,  urging  his  gallant 
grey  to  the  top  of  his  speed,  he  sees  once  more  the  glare  of  red  uniforms, 
the  flashing  of  British  steel.  He  is  surrounded  by  a  band  of  dragoons,  re 
turning  from  the  pursuit  of  Washington's  army.  Again  to  the  South,  brave 
soldier !  Again  to  the  South,  with  the  pursuing  troopers  at  his  horse's 
heels.  How  gallantly  he  rides — look  !  You  can  see  his  form  rising  through 
the  mist ;  by  the  light  of  that  pistol  flash,  you  can  even  see  the  tossing  of 
his  plume,  white  as  a  snow-flake  floating  in  the  sun. 

Again  to  the  South,  through  the  closely-woven  ranks  of  the  British  host. 
Those  soldiers  look  up  in  wonder  at  the  strange  sight — an  American  officer 
dashing  bravely  through  their  lines  unscathed  by  bullet  or  sword. 

Now  doubling  on  his  pursuers,  now  near  Chew's  house,  now  far  away 
in  the  fields,  that  brave  soldier  kept  on  his  flight.  God  and  the  mist  favored 
him.  At  last,  after  dashing  through  the  British  lines,  he  was  riding  North 
ward  again — his  pursuers  had  lost  sight  of  their  victim.  He  was  riding 
slowly  Northward  again ;  when  looking  ahead,  he  beheld  a  wounded  man 
stretched  on  the  sod,  in  the  agonies  of  death. 

It  was  the  brave  young  Briton  who  had  fallen  by  his  shot.  A  tear  was 
in  the  eye  of  the  American  soldier  as  he  beheld  that  pale  brow,  with  its 
curling  brown  hair.  Perchance  the  youth  had  a  wife — a  sister — in  far  away 
England  ?  Or,  maybe,  even  now  a  mother  wept  for  his  return  ? 

Our  Continental  soldier  dismounted  ;  he  laid  the  head  of  the  dying  Briton 
on  his  knee.  He  moistened  his  hot  lips  with  water  from  his  flask. 

It  was  a  sad  yet  lovely  sight,  to  see  that  brave  American,  in  his  blue 
uniform,  kneeling  there,  with  the  head  of  his  enemy,  the  red-coated  Briton, 
resting  on  his  knee. 

Then  as  the  dying  man  looked  up,  his  foe  muttered  a  prayer  for  his 
passing  soul.  As  that  prayer  went  up  to  God,  up  with  its  accents  of  com 
passion,  ascended  the  soul  of  the  British  youth. 

The  American  held  a  dead  body  in  his  arms. 

One  look  at  the  pale  face,  and  he  sprang  to  his  steed.  He  rejoined  the 
American  army  some  miles  above,  but  never  in  all  his  life  did  the  Preacher- 
Soldier  forget  the  last  look  of  the  dying  Briton. 

Another  scene  from  the  life  of  this  Preacher-soldier. 

It  is  night  around  Yorktown.  Yonder,  through  the  gloom,  you  see  dim 
masses  of  shadow,  creeping  along  toward  the  British  entrenchments.  Sud 
denly  all  is  light,  and  groans  and  smoke  !  Suddenly  the  Continentals  start 
up  from  darkness  into  the  light  of  the  cannon-glare  !  Suddenly  the  sky  is 
traversed  by  fiery  bombs,  while  the  earth  shakes  with  the  tread  of  embattled 
iegions  ! 

Look  yonder  !  A  desperate  band  of  American  soldiers,  with  fixed  bayo 
nets  advance  along  the  trenches,  and  spring  up  the  steep  ascent,  to  the  very 


THE   PREACHER-GENERAL.  515 

muzzles  of  British  cannon.  This  is  the  crisis  of  the  fight.  Those  cannon 
spiked,  this  redoubt  carried,  and  Yorktown  is  won  !  Two  brave  men  lead 
on  these  soldiers — one,  the  high-browed  Alexander  Hamilton,  the  other  the 
Preacher-Soldier  !  A  desperate  charge,  a  wild  hurrah,  the  redoubt  is  won  ! 

And  there,  standing  in  the  glare  of  the  cannon,  on  the  very  summit  of 
the  steep  ascent,  the  flag  of  stars  in  one  hand,  the  good  sword  in  the  other 
the  Preacher  Soldier  shouts  to  his  comrades,  and  tells  them  that  Yorktown 
is  won. 

He  stands  there  for  a  moment,  and  then  falls  in  the  trench,  his  leg  shat 
tered  by  a  cannon  ball. 

Bending  over  him,  by  the  light  of  the  battle-glare,  the  brave  Hamilton 
gazes  in  his  pale  face,  and  bending  beside  the  wounded  Preacher-Soldier, 
pens  a  few  hasty  words,  announcing  to  the  Continental  Congress  that  York- 
town  is  taken — Cornwallis  a  prisoner — America  a  Nation  ! 

And  who  was  this  brave  man,  who,  from  the  altar  of  God's  Church 
preached  freedom  ?  Who,  the  last  in  the  retreat  of  Germantown,  escaped 
as  by  a  miracle  from  British  bayonets  ?  Who,  by  a  long  course  of  gallant 
deeds,  wreathed  his  brow  with  the  Hero's  laurel  ?  Who  was  this  brave 
man  ?  How  name  you  him, who  led  on  the  forlorn  hope  at  Yorktown, 
with  the  starry  banner  waving  over  his  head  ! 

Ah,  he  bore  the  name  which  our  history  loves  to  cherish,  which  our 
literature  embalms  in  her  annals,  which  Religion  places  among  her  holiest 
lights,  burning  forevermore  by  the  altar  of  God  ! 

Pennsylvania  is  not  just  to  her  heroes.  She  is  content  to  have  them  do 
great  deeds,  but  she  suffers  them  to  be  crowded  out  of  history.  While 
North  and  South,  with  untiring  devotion,  glorify  their  humblest  soldiers, 
Pennsylvania  is  content  to  take  but  one  name  from  a  crowd  of  patriots,  and 
blazon  that  name  upon  the  escutcheon  of  our  glory — the  name  of  "  Mad 
Anthony  Wayne." 

Now  let  us  do  the  Iron  State  some  small  justice  at  last.  Now  let  us 
select  another  name  of  glory  from  the  crowd  of  heroes.  Now  let  us  write 
upon  the  column  of  her  fame,  side  by  side  with  the  name  of  ANTHONY 
WAYNE,  the  name  of  PETER  MUHLENBERG,  the  Preacher-General  of  the 
Revolution  ! 

There  let  them  shine  forever — those  brother  heroes,  solemn  witnesses, 
of  the  glory  of  the  Land  of  Penn— there  let  them  shine,  the  objects  of  our 
reverence  and  our  love — these  two  great  names — PETER  MUHLENBERG  and 
ANTHONY  WAYNE. 


ROMANCE    OF   THE    REVOLUTION. 


V.— TRENTON;    OR,  THE    FOOTSTEP    IN    THE   SNOW. 
A  TRADITION   OF  CHRISTMAS   NIGHT,  1776. 

IT  was  a  dark  and  dreary  night,ninety-nineyears  ago,  when,  in  an  ancient 
farm-house,  that  rises  along  yonder  shore,  an  old  man  and  his  children  baa 
gathered  around  their  Christmas  hearth. 

It  was  a  lovely  picture. 

That  old  man,  sitting  there  on  the  broad  hearth,  in  the  full  glow  of  the 
flame — his  dame,  a  fine  old  matron,  by  his  side — his  children,  a  band  of 
red-lipped  maidens, — some  with  slender  forms,  just  trembling  on  the  verge 
of  girlhood, — others  warming  and  flushing  into  the  summer  morn  of  woman 
hood  !  And  the  warm  glow  of  the  fire  was  upon  the  white  locks  of  the 
old  man,  and  on  the  mild  face  of  his  wife,  and  the  young  bloom  of  thoue 
fair  daughters. 

Had  you,  on  that  dark  night — for  it  was  dark  and  cold — while  the  De 
cember  sky  gloomed  above,  and  the  sleet  swept  over  the  hills  of  the  Dela 
ware —  drawn  near  that  farm-house  window,  and  looked  in  upon  that 
Christmas  hearth,  and  drank  in  the  full  beauty  of  that  scene — you  would 
confess  with  me  that  though  this  world  has  many  beautiful  scenes — much 
of  the  strangely  beautiful  in  poetry — yet  there,  by  that  hearth,  centred  and 
brightened  and  burned  that  poetry,  which  is  most  like  Heaven,  THE  POETRY 
OF  HOME  ! 

You  have  all  heard  the  story  of  the  convict,  who  stood  on  the  gallows, 
embruted  in  crime — steeped  to  the  lips  in  blood — stood  there,  mocking  at 
the  preacher's  prayer,  mocking  even  the  hangman  !  When,  suddenly,  as 
he  stood  with  the  rope  about  his  neck — his  head  sunk — a  single,  burning, 
scalding  tear  rolled  down  his  cheek. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  said  he,  in  a  broken  voice,  "  I  was  thinking  of  the — 
Christmas  fire  !" 

Yes,  in  that  moment,  when  the  preached  failed  to  warn,  when  even  the 
hangman  could  not  awe — a  thought  came  over  the  convict's  heart  of  that 
time,  when  a  father  and  his  children,  in  a  far  land,  gathered  around  their 
Christmas  fire. 

That  thought  melted  his  iron  soul. 

"  I  care  not  for  your  ropes  and  your  gibbets,"  he  said.  *•  But  now,  in 
that  far  land — there,  over  the  waters — my  father,  my  brothers,  my  sisters, 
are  sitting  around  their  Christmas  fire  !  They  are  waiting  for  me  !  And  I 
am  here — here  upon  the  scaffold  !" 

Is  there  not  a  deep  poetry  in  the  scene,  that  could  thus  touch  a  murder 
er's  soul,  and  melt  it  into  tears  ? 

And  now,  as  the  old  man,  his  wife,  his  daughters  cluster  around  their 
5re.  tell  me,  why  does  that  old  man's  head  droop  slowly  down,  his  eyes  fill, 
his  hands  tremble  ? 


TRBNTON;    OR,  THE   FOOTSTEP  IN    THE    SNOW.  517 

A.h.  there  is  ONE  absent  from  the  Christmas  hearth  ! 

He  is  thinking  of  the  absent  one — his  manly,  brave  boy,  who  has  been 
gone  from  the  farm-house  for  a  year. 

But  hark  !  Even  as  the  thought  comes  over  him,  the  silence  of  that  fire 
side  is  broken  by  a  faint  cry — a  faint  moan,  heard  over  the  wastes  of  snow 
from  afar. 

The  old  man  grasps  a  lantern,  and,  with  that  young  girl  by  his  side,  goes 
out  upon  the  dark  night. 

Look  there — as  following  the  sound  of  that  moan — they  go  softly  over 
the  frozen  path  :  how  the  lantern  flashes  over  their  forms — over  a  few 
white  paces  of  frozen  snow — while  beyond  all  is  darkness  ! 

Still  that  moan,  so  low,  so  faint,  so  deep-toned,  quivers  on  the  air. 

Something  arrests  the  old  man's  eye,  there  in  the  snow — they  bend  do\i  a 
he  and  his  daughter — they  gaze  upon  that  sight. 

It  is  a  human  footstep  painted  in  the  snow,  painted  in  blood. 

"  My  child,"  whispers  the  old  man,  tremulously,  "now  pray  to  Hea^tm 
for  Washington  !  For  by  this  footstep,  stamped  in  blood,  I  judge  that  >iis 
army  is  passing  near  this  place  !" 

Still  that  moan  quivers  on  the  air  ! 

Then  the  old  man,  and  that  young  girl,  following  those  footsteps  stair  ed 
in  blood — one — two — three — four — look  how  the  red  tokens  crimson  the 
white  snow! — following  those  bloody  footprints  ;  go  on  until  they  reach 
that  rock,  beetling  over  the  river  shore. 

There  the  lantern  light  flashes  over  the  form  of  a  half-naked  man,  crourh- 
ing  down  in  the  snow — freezing  and  bleeding  to  death. 

The  old  man  looks  upon  that  form,  clad  in  ragged  uniform  of  the  Con 
tinental  army — the  stiffened  fingers  grasping  the  battered  musket. 

It  was  his  only  son. 

He  called  to  him — the  young  girl  knelt,  and — you  may  be  sure  th<  re 
were  tears  in  her  eyes — chafed  her  brother's  hands — ah,  they  were  stiff  and 
cold !  And  when  she  could  not  warm  them,  gathered  them  to  her  young 
bosom,  and  wept  her  tears  upon  his  dying  face. 

Suddenly  that  brother  raised  his  head — he  extended  his  hand  towards 
the  river. 

"  Look  THERE,  FATHER  !"  he  said,  in  his  husky  voice. 

And  bending  down  over  the  rock,  the  old  man  looked  far  over  the 
river. 

There,  under  the  dark  sky,  a  fleet  of  boats  were  tossing  amid  piles  of 
floating  ice.  A  fleet  of  boats  bearing  men  and  arms,  and  extending  in  irreg 
ular  lines  from  shore  to  shore. 

And  the  last  boat  of  the  fleet — that  boat  just  leaving  the  western  shore 
of  the  Delaware  ;  the  old  man  saw  that  too,  and  saw — even  through  the 
darkness — yon  tall  form,  half-muffled  in  a  warrior's  cloak,  with  a  grey  war- 
horse  by  his  side. 


518  ROMANCE    OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

Was  not  ;hat  a  strange  sight  to  see  at  dead  of  night,  on  a  dark  mer, 
under  a  darker  sky  ? 

The  old  man  turned  to  his  dying  son  to  ask  the  meaning  of  this 
mystery. 

"  Father,"  gasped  the  brave  boy,  tottering  to  his  feet.  "  Father,  give 
me  my  musket — help  me  on — help  me  down  to  the  river — for  to-night — for 
to-night 

As  that  word  was  on  his  lips — he  fell.  He  fell,  and  lay  there  stiff  and 
cold.  Still  on  his  lips  there  hung  some  faintly  spoken  words. 

The  old  man — that  fair  girl — bent  down — they  listened  to  those  words — 

"  TO-NIGHT— Washington— the  British— to-night— TRENTON  !" 

And  with  that  word  gasping  on  his  lips — "  Trenton  !"  he  died  ! 

The  old  man  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  that  word  until  the  next  morn 
ing.  Then  there  was  the  sound  of  musketry  to  the  south ;  then,  booming 
along  the  Delaware  came  the  roar  of  battle. 

Then,  that  old  man,  with  his  wife  and  children,  gathered  around  the  body 
of  that  dead  boy,  knew  the  meaning  of  that  single  word  that  had  trembled 
on  his  lips. 

Knew  that  George  Washington  had  burst  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  the 
British  Camp  in  TRENTON  ! 

Ah  !  that  was  a  merry  Christmas  Party  which  the  British  officers  kept 
in  the  town  of  Trenton,  seventy  years  ago — although  it  is  true,  that  to 
that  party  there  carne  an  uninvited  guest,  one  Mister  Washington,  his  half- 
clad  army,  and  certain  bold  Jerseymen  ! 

Would  that  I  might  linger  here,  and  picture  the  great  deeds  of  that  morn 
ing,  seventy  years  ago. 

Would  that  I  might  linger  here  upon  the  holy  ground  of  TRENTON. 

For  it  is  holy  ground.  For  it  was  here,  in  the  darkest  hour  of  the  Revo 
lution,  that  George  Washington  made  one  stout  and  gallant  blow  in  the  name 
of  that  Declaration,  which  fifty-six  bold  men  had  proclaimed  in  the  old 
State  House  of  Philadelphia,  six  months  before. 

If  that  State  House  is  the  Mecca  of  Freedom,  to  which  the  pilgrims 
of  all  climes  may  come  to  worship,  then  is  the  battle-ground  of  Trenton, 
the  twin-Mecca^-the  Jerusalem  of  Freedom — to  which  the  Children  of 
Liberty,  from  every  land,  may  come  —  look  upon  the  footsteps  of  She 
mighty  dead — bring  their  offerings — shed  their  tears. 

December  26th,  1776  !— 

It  was  a  dark  night,  but  the  first  gleam  of  morning  shone  over  the  form 
of  George  Washington,  as  he  stood  beside  the  Hessian  leader,  Ralle,  who 
lay  in  yonder  room  wrestling  with  death — yes,  Washington  stood  there,  and 
placed  the  cup  of  water  to  his  feverish  lips,  and  spoke  a  prayer  for  his 
passing  soul. 

It  was  a  dark  night,  but  the  gleam  of  morning  shone  over  yon  cliff  dark 


THE    PRINTER    BOY   AND   THE   AMBASSADOR.  519 

ening  above  the  wintry  river,  over  the  frozen  snow,  where  a  fathei,  a  wife, 
a  band  of  children,  clustered  around  the  cold  form  of  a  dead  soldier, 

He  was  clad  in  rags,  but  there  was  a  grim  smile  on  his  white  lips — his 
frozen  hand  still  clenched  with  an  iron  grasp  the  broken  rifle. 

His  face,  so  cold,  so  ^ale,  was  wet  with  his  sister's  tears,  but  his  soul  had 
gone  to  yonder  heaven,  there  to  join  the  Martyrs  of  Trenton  and  of  Bunker 
Hill. 

VI.— THE    PRINTER  BOY   AND   THE   AMBASSADOR. 

GENIUS  in  its  glory — genius  on  its  eagle-wings — genius  soaring  away 
there  in  the  skies  ! 

This  is  a  sight  we  often  see  ! 

But  Genius  in  its  work-shop — Genius  in  its  cell — Genius  digging  away 
in  the  dark  mines  of  poverty — Toil  in  the  brain,  and  Toil  in  the  heart — this 
is  an  every  day  fact — yet  a  sight  that  we  do  not  often  see  ! 

Let  us  for  a  moment  look  at  the  strange  contrast  between — Intellect 
standing  there,  in  the  sunlight  of  Fame,  with  the  shouts  of  millions  ringing 
in  its  ears — and  Intellect  down  there,  in  cold  and  night-crouching  in  the 
work-shop  or  the  garret  ;  neglected — unpitied — and  alone  ! 

Let  us  for  a  moment  behold  two  pictures,  illustrating  The  Great  Facts — 
Intellect  in  its  rags,  and  Intellect  in  its  Glory. 

The  first  picture  has  not  much  in  it  to  strike  your  fancy — here  are  no 
dim  Cathedral  aisles,  grand  with  fretted  arch  and  towering  with  pillars — 
here  are  no  scenes  of  nature  in  her  sublimity,  when  deep  lakes  bosomed  in 
colossal  cliffs,  dawn  on  your  eye — or  yet,  of  nature's  repose,  when  quiet 
dells  musical  with  the  lull  of  waterfalls,  breaking  through  the  purple  twilight 
steal  gently  in  dream-glimpses  upon  your  soul  ! 

No  !  Here  is  but  a  picture  of  plain  rude  Toil — yes,  hot,  tired,  dusty 
toil! 

The  morning  sunshine  is  stealing  through  the  dim  panes  of  an  old 
window — yes,  stealing  and  struggling  through  those  dim  panes,  into  the 
dark  recesses  of  yonder  room.  It  is  a  strange  old  room — the  walls  cracked 
in  an  hundred  places,  are  hung  with  cobwebs — the  floor,  dark  as  ink,  is  ! 
stained  with  dismal  black  blotches— and  all  around  are  scattered  the 
evidences  of  some  plain  workman's  craft — heaps  of  paper,  little  pieces  of 
antimony  are  scattered  over  the  floor — and  there,  in  the  light  of  the 
morning  sun,  beside  that  window,  stands  a  young  man  of  some  twenty 
years — quite  a  boy — his  coat  thrown  aside,  his  faded  garments  covered 
with  patches,  while  his  right  hand  grasps  several  of  those  small  bits  of 
antimony. 

Why  this  is  but  a  dull  picture — a  plain,  sober,  every-day  fact. 

Yet  look  again  upon  that  boy  standing  there,  in  the  full  light  of  the 
morning  sun — there  is  meaning  in  that  massive  brow,  shaded  by  locks  of 


52o  ROMANCE   OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

darK  brown  hair — there  is  meaning  in  that  full  grey  eye,  now  dilating  and 
burning,  as  that  young  man  stands  there  alone,  alone  in  the  old  room. 

But  what  is  this  grim  monster  on  which  the  young  man  leans  ?  This 
thing  of  uncouth  shape,  built  of  massy  iron,  full  of  springs  and  screws,  and 
bolts — tell  us  the  name  of  this  strange  uncouth  monster,  on  which  that 
young  man  rests  his  hand  ? 

Ah  !  that  grim  old  monster  is  a  terrible  thing — a  horrid  Phantom  for  dis 
honest  priests  or  traitor  kings  !  Yes,  that  uncouth  shape  every  now  and 
then,  speaks  out  words  that  shake  the  world—for  it  is  a  Printing  Press  ! 

And  the  young  man  standing  there  in  a  rude  garb,  with  the  warm  sun 
shine  streaming  over  his  bold  brow — that  young  man  standing  alone 
—neglected— unknown— is  a  Printer  Boy  ;— yes,  an  earnest  Son  of  Toil  ; 
thinking  deep  thoughts  there  in  that  old  room,  with  its  dusty  floor  and  its 
cobweb-hung  walls  ! 

Those  thoughts  wit  on 3  day  shake  the  world. 

Now  let  us  look  upon  the  other  picture  : — 

Ah  !  here  is  a  scene  full  of  Night  and  Music  and  Romance  ! 

We  stand  in  a  magnificent  garden,  musical  with  waterfalls,  and  yonder, 
far  through  these  arcades  of  towering  trees,  a  massive  palace  breaks  up  into 
the  deep  azure  of  night. 

Let  us  approach  that  palace,  with  its  thousand  windows  flashing  with 
lights — hark  !  how  the  music  of  a  full  band  comes  stealing  along  this  garden 
—mingling  with  the  hum  of  fountains — gathering  in  one  burst  up  into  the 
dark  concave  of  Heaven. 

Let  us  enter  this  palace  !  Up  wide  stair-ways  where  heavy  carpets  give 
no  echo  to  the  footfall — up  wide  stair-ways — through  long  corridors, 
adorned  with  statues — into  this  splendid  saloon. 

Yes,  a  splendid  saloon — yon  chandelier  flinging  a  shower  of  light  over 
th'is  array  of  noble  lords  and  beautiful  women — on  every  side  the  flash  of 
jewels — the  glitter  of  embroidery — the  soft  mild  gleam  of  pearls,  rising  into 
light,  with  the  pulsation  of  fair  bosoms— ah  !  this  is  indeed  a  splendid 
scene  ! 

And  yonder — far  through  the  crowd  of  nobility  and  beauty — yonder, 
under  folds  of  purple  tapestry,  dotted  with  gold,  stands  the  Throne,  and  on 
that  Throne— the  King  ! 

That  King — these  courtiers — noble  lords — and  proud  dames — are  all 
awaiting  a  strange  spectacle  !  The  appearance  of  an  Ambassador  from  an 
unknown  Republic  far  over  the  waters.  They  are  all  anxious  to  look  upon 
this  strange  man — whose  fame  goes  before  him.  Hark — to  those  whispers 
— it  is  even  said  this  strange  Ambassador  of  an  unknown  Republic,  has 
called  down  the  lightnings  from  God's  eternal  sky. 

No  doubt  this  Ambassador  will  be  something  very  uncouth,  yet  it  still 
must  be  pl;iin  that  he  will  try  to  veil  his  uncouthness  in  a  splendid  Court 
drawl 


THE    PRINTER   BOY   AND    THE    AMBASSADOR.  521 

The  King,  the  Courtiers,  are  all  on  the  tip-toe  of  expectation  ! 

Why  does  not  this  Magician  from  the  New  World — this  Chainer  of 
tkjnde-rbolts — appear  ? 

Suddenly  there  is  a  murmur — the  tinselled  crowd  part  on  either  side — 
look  ! — he  comes  :  the  Magician,  the  Ambassador  ! 

He  comes  walking  through  that  lane,  whose  walls  are  beautiful  women  ; 
— is  he  decked  out  in  a  Court  dress  ?  Is  he  abashed  by  the  presence  of 
the  King  ? 

Ah,  no  !  Look  there — how  the  King  starts  with  surprise,  as  that  plain 
man  comes  forward  !  That  plain  man  with  the  bold  brow,  the  curling 
locks  behind  his  ears — and  such  odious  home-made  blue  stockings  upon  his 
limbs. 

Look  there,  and  in  that  Magician — that  Chainer  of  the  Lightnings — be 
hold  the  Printer  Boy  of  the  dusty  room  ;  stout-hearted,  true-souled,  com 
mon-sense  BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN  ! 

And  shall  we  leave  these  two  pictures,  without  looking  at  the  deep  moral 
they  inculcate  ? 

Without  the  slightest  disrespect  to  the  professions  called  learned,  I  stand 
here  to-night,  to  confess  that  the  great  Truth  of  Franklin's  life  is  the 
sanctity  of  Toil  ! 

Yes,  that  your  true  Nobleman  of  God's  creation,  is  not  your  lawyer,  dig 
ging  away  among  musty  parchments,  not  even  your  white  cravatted  divine 
— but  this  man,  who  clad  in  the  coarse  garments  of  Toil,  comes  out  from 
the  work-shop  and  stands  with  the  noon-day  sun  upon  his  brow,  not 
ashamed  to  own  himself  a  MECHANIC  ! 

Ah  !  my  friends,  there  is  a  world  of  meaning  in  these  pictures  !  They 
speak  to  your  hearts  now — they  will  speak  to  the  heart  of  Universal  Man 
forever ! 

HERE,  the  unknown  Printer  Boy  standing  at  his  labor,  neglected,  un 
known  ;  clad  in  a  patched  garb,  with  the  laborer's  sweat  upon  his  brow 
—  THERE,  the  MAN  whom  nations  are  proud  to  claim  as  their  own,  stand 
ing  as  the  Ambassador  of  a  Free  People — standing  as  a  PROPHET  OF  THE 
RIGHTS  OF  MAN — unawed,  unabashed,  in  the  PRESENCE  OF  ROYALTY  AND 
GOLD  ! 

Benjanrn  Franklin,  in   his  brown  coat  and  blue  stockings,  mocking  te> 
ihame  the  o  >mp  of  these  Courtiers — the  glittering  robes  of  yonder  King  ! 
33 


522  ROMANCE   OF    THE   REVOLUTION 


VII.— THE   REST   OF   THE    PILGRIM. 

LIKE  the  Pilgrim  of  the  olden  time,  who  having  journeyed  through  man;* 
lands,  gathering  new  memories  from  every  shrine  and  fresher  hopes  from 
every  altar,  ascends  the  summit  of  the  last  hill,  and  bending  on  his  staff, 
surveys  afar  the  holiest  place  of  all,  I  have  reached  after  much  joy  and 
toil  the  end  of  ray  wanderings,  and  in  the  distance  behold  gleaming  intn 
light,  the  Jerusalem  of  my  soul. 

That  Jerusalem  the  Altar  of  the  American  Past,  the  Sepulchre  of  the 
American  Dead. 

I  have  been  a  Pilgrim  in  holy  ground.  On  the  sod  of  the  battle-field, 
where  every  flower  blooms  more  beautiful  from  the  oblation  of  heroic  blood, 
poured  forth  upon  the  hallowed  soil— in  old  mansions  where  the  rent* walls 
and  blood-stained  threshhold  bear  memory  of  the  ancient  time — amid  the 
shadows  of  the  Hall  of  Independence,  where  the  warm  heart  may  see  the 
Signers  walk  again — in  the  dark  glen  where  the  yell  of  slaughter  once  arose, 
and  every  rock  received  its  bloody  offering — Such  have  been  the  holv 
places  of  my  Pilgrimage  into  the  American  Past. 

And  as  the  Pilgrim  of  the  far-gone  ages,  resting  on  the  last  hill,  stood  after 
all  his  wanderings  only  in  sight  of  the  great  temple  of  all  his  hopes,  so  does 
the  Pilgrim  of  the  battle-field,  rich  as  he  is  with  the  relics  of  the  Past,  stand 
after  all  but  on  the  threshhold  of  his  hallowed  work. 

For  this  book  of  the  Revolution,  stored  with  Legends  of  the  Past,  gathered 
from  aged  lips  and  renowned  battle-fields,  speaking  in  the  language  of  the 
iron  time  of  Washington  and  his  heroes,  is  but  a  page  in  the  traditionary 
history  of  our  land.  Much  I  have  written,  but  a  volume  ten  times  as  large 
as  this  remains  yet  to  be  written.*  I  have  but  uncovered  the  sealed  spring 
of  Revolutionary  Legend,  scarcely  dipped  my  scallop  shell  into  its  wild,  yet 
deep  and  tranquil  waters. 

On  this  Rock  of  Wissahikon  I  pause  in  my  pilgrimage,  and  write  thest 
words  to  my  reader.  This  Rock  of  Wissahikon  which  rises  on  the  side 
of  a  steep  hill,  amid  thick  woods — a  craggy  altar  on  whose  summit  wor- 


*  In  the  new  series  of  the  Legends  of  the  Revolution,  entitled  "  WASHINGTON 
AND  His  MEN,"  being  the  second  series  of  the  Legends  of  the  American  Revo 
lution,  just  published  by  T.  B.  Peterson  &  Brothers,  Philadelphia,  the  deeds  of  the 
heroes  whom  I  have  been  forced  to  omit  in  these  pages,  will  be  found  fully  illustrated. 
MARION,  the  hero  of  the  South,  KIKKWOOD  of  Delaware,  and  ALLEN  McLANE, 
that  fearless  partizan,  whose  courage  and  chivalry  remind  us  of  the  Knights  of  old, 
will  be  founa  pourtrayed  with  all  the  enthusiasm  which  their  names  excite.  The 
life  of  GENERAL  WASHINGTON,  too,  in  all  its  phases  of  contrast,  interest,  and 
grandeur,  will  be  found  delineated  in  this  series  of  Legends,  extending  from  his 
cradle  to  his  grave. 


THE    REST    OF    THE    PILGRIM.  523 

shipped  long  ago,  the  Priests  of  a  forgotten  faith.  Around  me  branch  the 
trees — glorious  monuments  of  three  hundred  years — fresh  with  the  verdure 
of  June.  Between  their  leaves  the  sky  smiles  on  me,  dimpled  only  by  a 
floating  cloud.  Far  below,  the  stream  flashes  and  sings  between  its 
mountain  banks.  Looking  down  a  vista  of  trees  and  moss  and  flowers,  I 
behold  a  vision  of  forest  homes,  grouped  by  the  waters.  You  that  love  to 
lap  yourself  in  June,  and  drink  its  odors,  and  feel  its  blessed  air  upon  youi 
brows,  and  recline  on  its  rocks  covered  with  vines,  musical  with  birds  and 
bees,  should  come  hither.  It  is  an  altar  for  the  Soul. 

As  I  sit  upon  this  rock — the  paper  on  my  knee,  the  birds,  the  stream,  the 
sky,  the  leaves,  all  ministering  blessings  to  my  soul — a  strange  throng  of 
fancies  crowd  tumultuously  on  me. 

What  was  the  name  of  the  Race  who  peopled  these  cliffs,  and  roved 
these  woods  two  thousand  years  ago  !  Were  they  but  brute  barbarians,  or 
a  people  civilized  with  all  that  is  noble  in  science  or  art,  hallowed  by  the 
knowledge  of  all  that  is  true  and  beautiful  in  Religion  ?  Where  are  their 
monuments  ;  the  wrecks  of  City  and  Altar?  O,  that  this  rock  could  speak, 
and  tell  to  me  the  history  of  the  long- forgotten  People,  who  dwelt  in  this 
luid  before  the  rude  Indian  ! 

Tell  us,  ye  Ages,  what  mysterious  tie  connects  the  history  of  the  red 
men  of  the  north,  with  the  voluptuous  children  of  the  south  ?  Speak,  ye 
Centuries,  and  reveal  to  us  the  mystic  message  of  these  monuments  of  the 
Past,  scattered  over  the  hills  and  prairies  of  our  northern  America  ?  The 
mounds  of  the  west,  the  fortifications  rising  ruggedly  from  the  rank  grass, 
the  deep-walled  foundations  of  a  city  in  Wiskonsan — a  city  that  has  been 
a  wreck  for  a  thousand  years — what  is  their  Revelation  ?  What  word  have 
they  of  the  mysterious  bye-gone  time  ? 

Are  there  no  Legends  of  the  Lost  Nations  of  America  ? 

As  I  start  back,  awed  and  wondering  from  the  fancies  that  crowd  upon 
me,  there  rushes  on  my  sight  a  vision  at  once  sublime  and  beautiful  ! 

It  is  the  vision  of  a  land  washed  by  the  waters  of  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific, 
beautiful  with  vallies  of  fruit  and  flowers,  grand  with  its  snow-white  peak 
of  Orizaba,  magnificent  with  its  cities — reared  in  a  strange  yet  gorgeous 
architecture — among  which  sits  supreme,  the  Capitol  of  Montezuma  !  A 
gorgeous  vision  !  It  swells  on  my  sight  with  its  altars  of  bloody  sacrifice, 
rising  above  the  sea  of  roofs,  with  its  clear  deep  lakes  set  in  frames  of 
flowers,  and  the  volcanic  mountains  hemming  it  in  a  magic  circle,  their  pil 
lars  of  snow  and  fire  supporting  the  blue  dome  of  the  sky  ! 

Crowd  your  wonders  of  the  old  world  into  one  panorama,  pile  Babylon 
on  Palmyra,  and  crown  them  both  with  Rome,  and  yet  you  cannot  match 
the  luxury,  the  magnificence,  the  splendor  that  dazzles,  and  the  mystery 
that  bewilders,  of  this  strange  land. 

The  tamest  word  in  its  history  is  a  Romance — the  wildest  dreams  cf  Ro 
mance,  hollow  and  meaningless,  compared  with  its  plainest  fact. 


524  ROMANCE    OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

And  the  name  of  the  vision  that  breaks  upon  me  is— MEXICO. 

Behold  three  lines  of  its  history  in  the  course  of  six  hundred  years ! 
— Six  hundred  years  ago  a  barbarous  horde  from  the  far  north  of  America, 
the  tribes  of  the  Aztec  people,  precipitated  themselves  on  this  beautiful  val 
ley,  conquered  the  race  who  dwelt  there,  and  swelled  into  the  civilized  Em 
pire  of  MONTEZUMA. 

— Three  hundred  years  ago,  a  wandering  adventurer  who  came  from  an 
unknown  land,  with  a  band  of  white  men  clad  in  iron  at  his  back— only  six 
hundred  homeless  men— overturned  the  splendid  dominion  of  Montezuma, 
and  founded  the  Empire  of  CORTES. 

— Now  in  the  year  eighteen-hundred  and  forty-seven,  even  while  I  write, 
the  white  race  of  North  America,  the  children  of  the  Revolution  and  coun 
trymen  of  Washington,  are  thronging  the  vallies,  darkening  the  mountains 
of  this  land,  bearing  in  their  front  amid  a  tide  of  sword  and  bayonet  the 
Banner  of  the  Stars,  which  they  have  determined  to  plant  on  the  Hall  of 
Montezuma  and  Cortez,  thus  establishing  in  the  valley  of  Mexico,  a  now 
dominion — THE  EMPIRE  OF  FREEDOM. 

Shall  we  not  write  the  traditions  of  this  land  ?  Shall  we  not  follow  the 
Banner  of  the  Stars  from  the  bloody  heighth  of  Bunker  Hill,  from  the 
meadow  of  Brandywine,  to  the  snow-clad  heighth  of  Orizaba  and  the 
golden  city  of  *Tenochtitlan  ? 

Yes,  we  will  do  it ;  the  beautiful  traditions  of  that  land  speak  to  us  in  a 
voice  that  we  may  not  disregard.  In  one  work,  we  will  combine  the  tradi 
tion,  the  history,  the  battles  and  the  religions  of  this  wonderful  land.  We 
will  traverse  its  three  Eras,  gathering  a  wild  excitement  as  we  go.  First, 
the  Era  of  the  Aztec  Invasion,  six  hundred  years  ago.  Then  the  Era  of 
Cortez,  three  hundred  years  back  into  time.  Last  of  all,  the  Era  of  Free 
dom,  when  the  bloody  fields  of  Palo  Alto,  Resaca,  the  three  days  fight  of 
Monterey,  the  terrible  contest  of  Buena  Vista,  the  seige  of  Vera  Cruz  and 
glorious  rout  of  Cerro  Gordo,  made  new  leaves  in  our  history  and  linked 
with  Cortez  and  Montezuma,  the  names  of  Scott  and  Taylor ! 

To  you,  reader,  who  perused  with  deep  sympathy,  the  Legends  of  the 
devolution,  let  us  present  the  traditions  of  another  scene  ;  "  THE  LEGENDS 
OF  MEXICO." 

— Let  me  tell  you,  how  the  idea  of  writing  the  legends  of  the  golden  and 
bloody  Land,  first  dawned  upon  me 

One  day,  not  long  ago,  as  I  sat  in  my  room,  my  table  strewn  with  the 
manuscript  of  Washington  and  his  Generals,  there  appeared  on  the  thresh- 
hold  a  young  man,  clad  in  a  plain  military  undress,  his  pale  face,  scaried 
forehead  and  fiery  eye,  denoting  the  ravages  of  the  battle  and  the  fever. 

He  advanced,  greeted  me  by  name,  and  I  soon  knew  him  as  one  of  th* 
disbanded  volunteers  of  Mexico. 

*  Aztec  name  of  the  city  of  Mexico. 


THE    REST    Of    THE   PILGRIM.  525 

I  must  confess  that  he  was  a  magnificent  looking  young  man.  Six  feet 
high,  his  figure  light,  agile,  and  muscular,  his  head  placed  proudly  on  his 
shoulders — despite  the  withered  cheek  and  scarred  brow — he  was  a  noble 
man  for  the  eyes  to  behold. 

In  short  plain  words,  he  told  me  his  story,  which  was  afterwards  corrob 
orated  by  others  who  knew  the  stranger.  But  a  year  ago  he  had  left  his 
home,  in  one  of  the  dear  rallies  of  the  west,  left  a  mother  and  sister,  joined 
the  army  of  Taylor,  shared  in  the  perils  of  Palo  Alto,  Resaca  and  Monte 
rey.  You  should  have  seen  his  lip  quiver,  his  pale  cheek  glow,  his  full 
eye  flash,  as  he  spoke  of  the  terrible  storming  of  the  Bishop's  Palace.  It 
made  the  blood  run  cold,  to  hear  him  talk  of  the  sworn  comrade  of  his 
heart,  whose  skull  was  peeled  off,  by  an  escoppette  ball,  as  they  advanced 
side  by  side  along  the  Plaza  of  Monterey. 

Altogether  the  history  of  this  young  man,  the  story  of  his  life  from  tl* 
hour  when  he  kissed  "  farewell"  on  his  sister's  lips,  and  beheld  his  mothei's 
white  hairs  gleaming  from  the  threshhold  of  Home,  until  the  moment  whtm 
disbanded  with  the  other  volunteers,  he  lay  fevered  and  dying  in  the  Hos 
pital  of  New  Orleans,  affected  me  with  every  varying  interest ;  I  felt  my 
heart  swell,  my  eyes  fill  with  tears. 

At  last,  I  ventured  to  ask  him  how  he  knew  my  name — 

"  I  came,"  said  the  soldier,  mentioning  my  name  with  an  emphasis,  that 
made  my  heart  bound — "  I  came  from  the  field  of  Monterey,  to  thank  you 
for  myself  and  my  comrades  !" 

"  Thank  me  ?" 

"  Your  works  have  cheered  the  weariness  of  many  a  sleepless  nig/it. 
Gathered  round  our  watch-fire  before  the  battle  of  Monterey,  one  of  our 
number  seated  on  a  cannon,  would  read,  while  the  others  listened.  Yes,  in 
the  Courier  we  read  your  Legends  of  the  Revolution  !  Believe  me,  sir, 
those  things  made  our  hearts  feel  warm — they  nerved  our  arms  for  the  bat 
tle  !  When  we  read  of  the  old  times  of  our  Flag,  we  swore  in  our  hearts, 
never  to  disgrace  it !" 

As  the  young  soldier  spoke,  he  placed  in  my  hand  a  small  knife, — a  very 
toy  of  a  thing — and  a  volume  of  blotted  manuscript. 

"  This  knife  T  took  from  the  vest  of  my  dead  comrade  in  the  plaza  of 
Monterey.  Take  it,  sir,  as  a  mark  of  gratitude  from  a  soldier,  whose  lonely 
hours  have  been  cheered  by  your  Legends.  This  Manuscript  contains  the 
record  of  my  wanderings — roughly  written — yet  the  facts  of  the  battles  and 
marches  are  there.  Accept  these  tokens,  the  knife  and  the  book — they  are 
all  I  have  to  give  !" 

As  the  brave  fellow  spoke,  his  voice  grew  tremulous  :  there  was  a  tear 
in  his  eye. 

Shall  I  confess  it  ?  As  I  glanced  from  the  papers  on  my  table — news 
papers  among  others  containing  the  foulest  libels  on  my  works,  ever  penned 
by  the  animalculae  of  the  Press— to  the  pale  face  of  the  young  soldier,  I  fell 


526  ROMANCE  OF   THE   REVOLUTION. 

my  neart  bound  with  a  joy  unfelt  before.     Far  more  precious  to  my  heart, 
than  the  praise  of  all  the  critics  in  the  world,  was  that  scarred  soldier's  tear. 

Rather  dwell  enshrined  in  one  honest  heart  like  his,  than  enjoy  tha 
praise  of  Critics,  Reviewers,  and  all  other  Pigmies  of  the  pen,  whose  good 
opinion  can  be  bought  even  as  you  purchase  peddler's  wares.  .« 

I  will  confess,  and  confess  frankly,  that  the  knife,  the  journal  of  that  sol 
dier  of  Monterey,  are  worth  more  to  me  than  a  ribbon  or  a  title  bestowed 
by  the  hands  of  the  proudest  monarch  that  ever  lived. 

From  the  rough  heart-warm  sketches  of  that  journal,  I  have  constructed 
the  basis  of  my  "  LEGENDS  OF  MEXICO."* 

Do  not  charge  me  with  the  folly  of  egotism.  I  have  journeyed  far  and 
long  with  you,  my  reader,  and  never  once  obtruded  the  Author  on  your 
eight.  But  at  the  same  time  that  I  frankly  confess  my  thorough  contempt 
•f  the  whole  race  of  mercenary  critics,  whose  praise  I  have  once  or  twice 
been  so  unfortunate  as  to  receive — a  praise  more  to  be  dreaded  than  their 
slander — I  must  also  state  that  the  spontaneous  tribute  from  the  scarred  sol 
dier  of  Monterey,  spoke  to  my  inmost  heart.  It  showed  me  that  my  labors 
were  not  altogether  valueless  ;  it  showed  more  a  high  and  holy  truth,  that 
the  memories  of  the  Old  Revolution  are  still  with  us,  in  the  hearts  of  our 
People,  binding  millions  in  one  great  bond  of  brotherhood,  and  nerving  the 
arms  of  American  freemen  in  far  distant  lands,  amid  the  horrors  of  savage 
battles. 

May — I  whose  greatest  fault  has  ever  been,  that  I  could  not  mould  my 
self  to  the  humors  of  a  tinselled  aristocracy,  nor  worship  empty  pomps  and 
emptier  skulls,  though  garnished  with  big  names  and  hired  praise — frankly 
make  the  record  on  this  page,  that  I  am  proud  of  the  unbought  approbation 
of  that  battered  soldier  of  Monterey  ? 

You  should  have  heard  him  talk  of  the  scenes  he  had  witnessed,  in  the 
strange  land  of  Mexico. 

In  the  battle  where  a  few  American  freemen  contended  against  the  brave 
hordes  of  the  southern  land.  Among  the  mountains,  whose  shadows  still 
shelter  the  remnants  of  the  Aztec  People.  Amid  the  ruins  of  gorgeous 
cities,  whose  strange  architecture  stamped  with  the  traces  of  a  thousand 
years,  tells  of  a  long  lost  civilization,  whose  wierd  hieroglyphics  are  big 
with  History  that  no  human  eye  may  read ;  whose  rainbow  vegetation, 
blossoming  amid  monument  and  pyramid,  adorns  the  wreck  which  it  cannot 
save — whose  solemn  temples,  mysterious  with  God  and  Symbol,  speak  of 
a  Religion  once  the  barbarous  Hope  of  millions,  and  now  forgotten  in  that 
awful  silence,  brooding  over  the  past  ages,  like  the  serene  and  pathless  sky 
above  the  summit  of  Chimborazo  ! 


*  The  reader  will  of  course  understand,  that  at  the  time  this  article  in  conclusion 
of  Washington  and  his  Generals  was  written,  the  previous  pages  of  the  work  had  beei 
published  some  months.  This  notice  is  necessary,  to  free  the  author  from  an  impu 
t*uun  which  would  otherwise  be  made,  of  plagiarizing  from  his  own  works. 


THE    REST   OF   THE   PILGRIM.  527 

Such  had  been  the  course  of  his  wanderings  ;  and  wherever  he  turned, 
he  discovered  the  broken  links  of  the  great  chain  which  connects  the  stern 
Indian  of  the  rugged  North,  with  those  children  of  the  blossoming  South, 
the  dwellers  in  the  land  of  Mexico  and  Peru  ' 

And  now  reader,  as  on  this  Rock  of  Wissahikon  I  write  these  farewell 
words,  while  the  supernatural  beauty  of  this  place  is  all  about  me,  imbuing 
the  air  as  with  an  angel  presence,  permit  me  to  hope  that  we  do  not  part 
forever.  For  the  Pilgrim  of  the  battle-fields  of  America  will  wander  forth 
again,  and  gather  new  relics  from  the  Sepulchre  of  the  Past.  When  next 
we  wander  forth  with  staff  and  scallop  shell,  our  pilgrimage  will  tend  to 
Mouh»  Verrion  ;  from  that  shrine  of  our  history  we  will  bring  you  fresh 
stores  of  tradition,  and  from  the  grave  of  the  American  Chieftain,  pour  new 
light  upon  the  glorious  career  of  the  brother-heroes — WASHINGTON  AND  HI* 
GENERALS 

GEORGE  LIPPARD, 
WISSAHIKON- 


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